[DCI Neil Paget 01] - Fatal Flaw

by Frank Smith

  They had been married less than two years when everything blew up in her face.

  ‘I was upstairs,’ she said, not looking at Paget now. ‘I was trying to clear a space in the box-room so I could set up my typewriter there, and I went to move this old suitcase of Victor’s. I don’t know what prompted me to do it, but I opened it.’

  She stopped. Her eyes were fixed on the floor. She was breathing deeply, steadying herself before continuing.

  ‘There was bloodstained clothing in the case. Children’s clothing. And there was a mask; a clown’s mask.’ Andrea McMillan spoke mechanically. It was as if she’d learned the piece by heart. There was no inflection; no emotion.

  ‘I knew immediately what it meant, but I couldn’t bring myself to believe it.’ She looked directly at him as she continued. He could see the pain. ‘You see, there’d been a series of attacks on young children in the area by a man who lured them into his car using a clown mask and the promise of chocolate and ice cream. He would take them deep into the local woods and...’ She brushed a hand across her face. ‘Later, the children would be found dazed and hurt and wandering on some remote road where he’d pushed them out of the car. Some of them...’ She choked on the words and had to stop until she could regain her composure.

  ‘The police did everything they could, of course, but they couldn’t find a single clue to the man’s identity.’

  She was still there in the attic in a state of shock when Victor came home. She tackled him about it, and it was clear from his face that he was guilty. At first, he’d tried to reason with her, pleading with her to say nothing; promising to stop if she would just give him another chance. But the attacks, of late, had become more frequent and more violent, and the police had warned that there might come a day when a child would be killed.

  She had refused to listen to him, and told him she was going to ring the police. ‘He went berserk,’ she said. ‘He came at me like a madman; he hit me with his fists and knocked me down. He started choking me, but I managed to fight him off and started down the stairs. But he caught me and had me by the throat...’ Her voice dried up and died. Her eyes were blank and fixed as she relived the horror.

  ‘If the local vet hadn’t come up to the house from the barn where he’d been treating one of the horses. I’m sure Victor would have killed me,’ she concluded.

  Thirteen attacks on children had taken place over a two-year period, and the police were convinced that Palmer was responsible for all of them. But he was only charged with two, and was sentenced to five years without the option of parole.

  ‘You said he tried to kill you, but there was nothing about that in the file. Wasn’t he charged?’

  ‘No.’ Andrea passed a hand across her face. ‘There was some problem with the evidence; the vet said he couldn’t swear that Victor was choking me. Anyway, the lawyers said it wouldn’t make much difference to how much time he spent in prison, and it would only muddy the waters.’ She shrugged. ‘The charge was dropped.’

  ‘It was three months before he came to trial,’ Andrea went on after a moment, ‘and I know this must sound strange, but it wasn’t until then that I realized I was pregnant.’ Her mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘Some doctor, I was. But I was in such a state of physical and emotional shock that I failed completely to recognize the signs.

  ‘After the trial, I gave up my job and went to stay with a friend. Divorce proceedings were already under way, but Sarah was born before the decree was granted. Other than my friend with whom I was staying, only my mother knew that I’d had a baby. I went back to using my maiden name, and eventually landed a job here in Broadminster.’

  ‘You’re saying that your husband never knew that you’d had a child?’

  Andrea McMillan closed her eyes. ‘Please, Neil, don’t ever call him my husband,’ she said huskily. ‘I start to shake every time I think of the time we were together.’ She opened her eyes and looked at him. ‘But that’s right. He never knew, and I was foolish enough to think that I could hide and keep it from him.

  ‘When he got out he went to visit my mother, asking about me. She sent him packing, of course, but that night he broke into the house and went through it. He found a photograph of Sarah and me. I’m sure that’s the first he ever knew of Sarah, but I can imagine how it must have pleased him. He’d sworn he’d come after me, and now, knowing that I’d had a child, his child...’

  ‘I don’t know how he traced me here. I suppose it wouldn’t be too hard, but I thought that after five years...’ She brushed the thought aside. ‘I took some basic precautions, but I thought we’d be safe, Sarah and I. I was stunned when my mother phoned to tell me about him breaking into the house and taking the photograph. I took Sarah away. It was hard, but I had to keep her out of danger. If he found me, that was one thing, but Sarah - I swore to myself that I would see him dead before I’d let him near her.’

  Did she realize, Paget wondered, what she’d said? He saw the set of her jaw, the determination in her face, and he had no doubt she meant every word.

  Paget looked at the floor. ‘You never mentioned Sarah to me,’ he said. ‘Why was that?’

  Andrea shrugged. ‘I don’t know, exactly,’ she said slowly. ‘Just natural caution, I suppose. It wasn’t long after we first started going out together that my mother rang to tell me about Victor. I hadn’t mentioned Sarah to you before, so I said nothing. I didn’t want to have to explain her absence.’

  ‘And that’s why you always met me outside your door - and didn’t invite me in.’

  ‘Yes. I...Perhaps I’m an over-protective mother.’

  ‘So you took Sarah away,’ he said. ‘But not to your mother’s, obviously. Where is she, Andrea?’

  Andrea had the grace to look guilty. ‘I’m sorry, Neil, but you see I had to tell people something when I took Sarah away, and it seemed best to tell them she was visiting her grandmother. As it was, Mrs Ansell thought me a very strange mother. She practically accused me of abandoning my daughter, but then, she is very fond of Sarah. Unfortunately, once you start a lie like that, you’re forced to tell everyone the same thing, and I’m afraid that’s what I did with you just now.’

  ‘Where is Sarah now?’

  ‘With a very good friend.’

  ‘Not in Devon, I take it?’

  Andrea shook her head.

  ‘And that’s where you went on Friday night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You didn’t go out to Glenacres?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where were you between the hours of nine and eleven last Friday night?’

  ‘Driving down to my friend’s place.’

  ‘Did you stop anywhere? See anyone you knew?’

  ‘No.’

  Paget drew in a long breath and let it out again. It didn’t look good. It didn’t look good at all. Andrea had lied to him. She’d lied about seeing Palmer, and she’d lied about Sarah. And it appeared that she had no alibi for the time of the murder.

  ‘I’ll need your friend’s name and address,’ he said. ‘And I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with me.’

  The Coach and Horses was a long, low, modern-looking pub with a garden at the back. The garden overlooked the river, and on good days patrons could sit out there beneath the trees and pretend they were in the country. But on days such as this one, with the rain bucketing down outside, they gathered in the bar to take advantage of the radiant warmth of an artificial log fire.

  Not that there were many there this Monday lunch-time. A handful of office workers who’d come down for a pint and a hot meat pie; four corporation workers who had the dominoes out and looked as if they were settling in for the afternoon; and a young couple who sat in the farthest corner of the room, oblivious to everything except each other.

  Tregalles stood at the end of the bar and finished his drink. He caught the eye of the woman behind the bar; a heavily made-up blonde of about fifty, and the landlord’s wife according to the photographs that adorned th
e wall behind the bar. She raised an eyebrow and he nodded. ‘Same again, please, luv,’ he said. ‘And have something for yourself.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll have a small port, if that’s all right?’ she said. ‘You’ve not been in before, then?’

  ‘No. Been meaning to. A chap I know keeps telling me I should. He comes here to play darts.’

  The woman slid his drink across the bar, along with his change. ‘Who’s that, then?’ she asked.

  ‘Chap by the name of Lucas. Jack Lucas. Runs a stable.’

  ‘Jack? Oh yes. He’s down here regular. On the team. Do you play?’

  Tregalles shrugged modestly. ‘A bit. Not in Jack’s league, of course.’ He sipped his drink. ‘I was supposed to have come down Friday night to meet him, but it was late when I got home. I could have come, I suppose, but it was getting on for ten.’

  ‘Good job you didn’t, then,’ the woman told him. ‘Jack’s team got itself knocked out in the first round. They were all finished by eight or thereabouts. I was busy, but my husband, Tom, said he’d never seen Jack play so bad. Went off home in a right old huff, too, he said.’

  ‘What, straightaway? That’s not like Jack. I’d have thought he’d have stayed on to drown his sorrows.’

  The woman eyed him speculatively. ‘You did say you were a friend of his, didn’t you?’

  Tregalles shrugged. ‘Well, I know him,’ he said. ‘Do a bit of business with him now and then, but we’re not close friends. Why?’

  The woman looked up and down the bar, and lowered her voice. ‘Well, if you knew him better, you’d know Jack doesn’t like to lose. Not in anything. Gets right snarky, sometimes, and if he’s had a pint or two too many, he gets proper nasty.’

  ‘Does he, now? Thanks for the warning.’ Tregalles took another pull at his beer, and cast around for another subject before the woman became suspicious.

  ‘Make your own pies?’ he asked. ‘They smell good.’

  The woman beamed. ‘Fresh this morning,’ she assured him. ‘I make them myself.’

  Tregalles sniffed appreciatively. ‘I’ll have one of those, then, luv,’ he said. ‘On second thoughts, make it two.’

  19

  ‘Dr McMillan is downstairs now,’ said Paget. ‘They’re taking her statement.’ He was in Alcott’s office, having just given the superintendent a summary of the interview with Andrea. Alcott, with his ever-present cigarette burning its way towards his fingers, sat hunched over his desk.

  ‘I don’t give a damn what she says,’ the superintendent growled. ‘Palmer went to a lot of trouble to find her, and it wasn’t just to say how sorry he was for what he’d done. He threatened her; you can bet on it, and knowing what he was like with kids -‘ Alcott grimaced at the thought - ‘you can also bet that she would do anything to protect her daughter. Including murder. Which makes her prime suspect for his murder.’

  ‘She claims to have been driving down to see her daughter at the time we believe Palmer was killed,’ said Paget neutrally.

  Alcott grunted. ‘Not much of an alibi,’ he said. ‘Get rid of that and we have motive, opportunity, and a doctor who would know exactly where to strike.’

  Grudgingly, Paget had to admit that Alcott was probably right. They couldn’t prove that Palmer had threatened Andrea, but he himself had witnessed their encounter on Boxing Day, and he had seen the look on Andrea’s face. Try as he might, he could not rid himself of the vision of Andrea, hand raised to strike, and Palmer standing there looking smug and insolent. Could that same hand have been behind the savage thrust that ended Palmer’s life?

  ‘We’re working on it,’ Paget said cautiously. ‘But if she is telling the truth, then we’re back to square one. According to the doctor, she left here somewhere between eight thirty and nine. Her first story was that she went to her mother’s place near Newton Abbot, but now she says Sarah is with a friend just outside Bath, and that’s where she went, arriving there about ten thirty. If that’s true, she wouldn’t have had time to get out to the stables, kill Palmer, then get down to Bath by ten thirty. I’m sending Tregalles down to check that out, and to make sure that Sarah is in fact where the doctor says she is.’

  Alcott squinted at him through a haze of smoke. ‘She’s guilty, Paget,’ he said softly. ‘Times can be manipulated as you well know. All we need is a doubtful fifteen minutes and she won’t have a leg to stand on.’ He swung his chair around to face the window and stared off into the distance. ‘Now get out there and tear that alibi to shreds.’

  It was the middle of the afternoon by the time Paget climbed inside the mobile incident room set up behind the stables. It was an old unit, a lash-up of scrounged desks and chairs and office equipment considered obsolete by other departments, and destined for the scrap heap. Paget edged his way past two WPCs thumping away on typewriters that looked as if they’d come out of the ark, and made his way to the back where Sergeant Ormside was seated at a desk.

  ‘Afternoon, sir,’ said Ormside, swivelling in his chair to face the chief inspector.

  ‘Hello, Len. Good to see you in charge out here.’

  Len Ormside was a tall, thin, sharp-featured man with hooded eyes that gave him the appearance of being half asleep. But the sergeant had thirty years of experience behind him, and when it came to co-ordinating an investigation, there was no one who could touch him.

  Ormside hooked his toe under a chair and slid it towards Paget. ‘Have a seat,’ he invited, ‘but watch it; there’s a wheel off.’

  Gingerly, Paget sat down. ‘What have we got?’ he asked the sergeant.

  ‘Considering what we’ve got to work with -‘ Ormside cast his eye around the room at the array of decrepit equipment - ‘we’re doing all right,’ he said. ‘We’ve taken all the statements, and they’re being typed up now. I’ve looked them over, but apart from one or two things that don’t quite add up, I don’t see too much wrong with them. I’ll have a better idea when they’re plotted out and cross-referenced on a chart.’

  ‘We’ve had damn-all back from Forensic, so far. Charlie’s men have picked up a few odd bits and pieces, but it’s too early to tell whether they mean anything or not.’

  ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Well, for a start, it looks as if someone’s been parking his car part-way up the bridle-path across the road. Charlie’s men did a sweep of the area, and they found fresh tyre impressions along the track that goes off through the woods. Comes out by Malford, so they tell me. I asked that fellow, Blake, about it, and he said it’s a regular bridle-path. They use it all the time.’

  ‘Sounds like a bit of a lovers’ lane to me,’ said Paget. ‘I can’t see it having any bearing on our murder.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ Ormside said in his unhurried way. ‘But Charlie has a different idea, and he may be right. The area is still cordoned off if you’d like to take a look for yourself.’

  ‘I shall,’ Paget assured him. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘There was one thing,’ Ormside said slowly, ‘but I don’t know if it means anything. I was taking Sally Pritchard’s statement down when she happened to mention that it was Blake’s turn to do rounds last Friday. When I asked her about it, she said people often swapped between themselves, and nobody minded as long as someone did the rounds. I haven’t spoken to Blake about it yet, but she was right; his name was on the rota. I thought you might like to have a word yourself.’

  ‘I would, indeed,’ said Paget. ‘He made no mention of it to me when I spoke to him on Saturday.’

  ‘Nor to me this morning,’ said Ormside. He picked up a handful of forms. ‘These are the statements we have from people living in the area, but we still have a few to go.’ Paget riffled through them, stopping as a name caught his eye.

  ‘Miss Crowther?’ he said, surprised. ‘What’s she doing in here?’

  ‘Sally Pritchard, again,’ said Ormside. ‘She mentioned that Miss Crowther often does a circular walk in the evening. She walks round here by road, then cuts throu
gh the stable yard and goes back to the school across the fields. Not that Miss Crowther turned out to be much help. She said she was over this way Friday evening, but it was earlier, about eight, she thought it was, and she didn’t notice anything unusual.’

  Paget scanned the sheet, but there was nothing more to be learned from it. ‘Right, then,’ he said, ‘I’ll be on my way.

  ‘There is one thing you might look into,’ he said as he rose to go. ‘Lucas said he had a call from a man named Dennison the day before Palmer arrived looking for a job, but Dennison says he never made the call. I think that call was made by Palmer. Find out where he was staying then, and see if there’s a record of it.’

  ‘I’ll have someone on it right away,’ said Ormside.

  Paget walked back down the drive to the road, crossed it, and found a well-worn track leading into the woods. Fifty paces took him into deep cover - and brought him to the spot Ormside had mentioned. Two men were taking down the tapes that had cordoned off a small area.

  ‘Afternoon, sir,’ said one, recognizing Paget. ‘Come to have a look, have you?’

  ‘That’s right. What have you found?’

  The man showed Paget the tyre tracks; pointed to where the car had sat for some time, and to several markers within a few feet of each other where he said someone had tossed cigarettes into the long grass. ‘If you stand here in the middle of the track, which is roughly where someone would be if they were sitting in a car facing the road, you can see both gates,’ he explained. ‘The one leads to the stables; the other to the house. Charlie - Inspector Dobbs - reckons somebody’s been watching those two entrances for weeks.’

  ‘It could have been some young couple who wanted a bit of privacy,’ Paget suggested, but the man shook his head emphatically.