[DCI Neil Paget 01] - Fatal Flaw

by Frank Smith

  She was shaking her head slowly from side to side. ‘The only place I stopped was in the village when I tried to phone Kate,’ she said, ‘and I don’t recall seeing a soul. Sorry.’

  Sorry. It wasn’t good enough.

  ‘Where were you between the hours of two and six this morning?’ he asked.

  She frowned. ‘This morning? In bed, of course. Why, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘Tell me, how well did you know Maurice Blake?’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘My goodness, we are jumping about, aren’t we,’ she said in a mocking voice. ‘What on earth has…? Did you say “did” know Maurice Blake?’

  Paget nodded. ‘He died this morning.’

  The shock in her eyes seemed genuine. ‘How?’

  ‘Someone set fire to his caravan after making sure he couldn’t get out,’ Paget said bluntly.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ She stared at him for what seemed like a long time. ‘But you can’t think that I... Good God, why, Neil? Why would I want to kill someone like Maurice? I hardly knew the man.’

  ‘But you did know him?’

  ‘Well, yes, I knew him in the sense that I’ve spoken to him a few times, but that’s all. Sally Pritchard handles Busker, so my contact with him was minimal.’

  Andrea began to pace. ‘I can understand why you would think that I might have killed Victor,’ she said. ‘I know I lied to you about where I was, but I was scared to death that you would think exactly that if I told the truth. Dammit, Neil, why would I kill Maurice? As I said, I hardly knew the man.’

  Why, indeed. ‘You might if he saw you out there on the night that Palmer was killed,’ he said quietly. ‘Was he blackmailing you?’

  Andrea stopped in front of him. All colour had drained from her face. She was trembling. Not with fear, but with anger.

  ‘I refuse to say any more until I’ve spoken to my solicitor,’ she said coldly, and turned away.

  Paget rose slowly from his chair. ‘I think you’re very wise,’ he said sadly. ‘Very wise indeed.’

  The wind buffeted the car as it climbed out of the valley and left the lights of the town behind. It was trying to snow again, wet, heavy flakes mixed with rain. Paget muttered beneath his breath and switched on the wipers. Perhaps Alcott had a point, he thought; with weather like this, January should be banned.

  It had been touch and go with the superintendent this afternoon. Alcott was a man who saw the world in black and white; he had little time for shades of grey. As far as he was concerned, the case against Andrea McMillan was cut and dried, and he couldn’t understand Paget’s reluctance to charge her.

  ‘Dammit, man, she had motive, means, and opportunity. And you said yourself that she admits to being there when Palmer was killed. What more do you want?’ he’d said, not unreasonably.

  ‘But everything is circumstantial,’ Paget had argued. ‘We don’t have one piece of physical evidence that ties her to either crime, and in the case of Blake we have nothing. We can’t prove that she was anywhere but where she says she was, and we have no motive. A better case can be made against Lucas when it comes right down to it. We know he wasn’t sitting out there night after night watching for thieves; even his own staff say nothing of any real value has disappeared around there. I’m quite sure he was waiting to find out who his wife was seeing whenever he went out. But we only have his word for it that he was waiting in the lane that night. If we assume that he’d found out about Blake, then it’s not too hard to imagine him lying in wait for Blake inside the barn, and not sitting in his car as he says.’

  ‘When he realized he’d got the wrong man, he went after Blake in his caravan.’

  ‘But we also know that the doctor was out there. She admitted it herself,’ Alcott reminded him. ‘And Lucas saw her car.’

  Paget had countered by pointing out that Dr McMillan had said she was out there to give Palmer money; to buy him off, in effect, and her bank manager had confirmed that she had withdrawn two thousand pounds two days before.

  Alcott had brushed that aside. ‘That could have been a blind,’ he said. ‘Or she might have changed her mind. Blackmail seldom ends with one payment, and she’s certainly bright enough to realize that.’

  ‘Then where does Blake fit into the picture?’

  Alcott sucked on his cigarette until it glowed bright red, then stubbed it out. ‘Damned if I know,’ he said irritably. ‘Perhaps he saw her...’

  He stopped, recognizing the futility of going on. ‘This is getting us nowhere,’ he growled. ‘See what the lab has to say. And there must be something that will tie the doctor to both Blake and Palmer. Stir Ormside up, and check with the patrol cars. If she did kill Blake, and I believe she did, she had to get out to the stables one way or another. Someone must have seen her.’

  ‘We’re checking with everyone who was on duty that night,’ Paget had assured him, ‘and Sergeant Ormside has men talking to virtually everyone in the immediate area. If anyone saw her, he’ll find them.’

  It wasn’t just because it was Andrea that he wasn’t prepared to take the circumstantial evidence at face value, Paget told himself. Much as he didn’t want to believe her guilty, he knew better than to dismiss the possibility. She had a powerful motive in trying to protect her daughter.

  But there was more to it than that, he was sure of it. He felt it in his bones. Every time he went out to Glenacres he could feel it. It was there in Lucas’s behaviour; it was there in Sally Pritchard’s eyes.

  He thought of Sally now. She’d been hiding something ever since that first day; Christmas Day. Something to do with the death of Monica Shaw. Had Sally really been ill that morning? Or had she simply feigned illness so that she wouldn’t have to go over to the school?

  It was only one of several questions he would put to her tomorrow.

  As he entered Ashton Prior, his thoughts went back to the day that Andrea had asked him if he would like to go with her to the local theatre. A grateful patient had given her two tickets, she said. Would he care to go?

  She had been very matter-of-fact about it. They were having coffee together late one evening in the hospital cafeteria, talking about a man he was sure was feigning illness to avoid questioning, when she’d put the question.

  It had surprised him. He’d only spoken to her a few times prior to that, and the relationship between them was purely professional. For a moment, he was at a loss for words.

  Andrea had laughed self-consciously. ‘I’m sorry. Chief Inspector,’ she apologized. ‘I can see I’ve embarrassed you. It was -‘ she shrugged helplessly, embarrassed now herself - ‘a spur of the moment thing. Believe me, I don’t make a habit of this sort of thing. It was presumptuous of me. Please, just forget I asked.’

  He found his voice. ‘I must admit you did take me by surprise,’ he said ruefully, ‘but I’m flattered. Please don’t apologize, because I would like to go. In fact. Doctor, I shall look forward to it with a great deal of pleasure.’

  She regarded him with solemn eyes, and he remembered thinking that he’d never really looked at her before. Not really looked. Even here beneath the unflattering fluorescent lights, and tired after a long, exhausting day, she looked lovely, and he wondered why he’d never noticed that before.

  ‘That’s very chivalrous. Chief Inspector,’ she said, ‘but really, you don’t have to...’

  ‘No. I mean it,’ he said earnestly.

  Thinking of it now, he remembered how it had suddenly become important that she believe him. ‘I really do mean it. Doctor,’ he’d said again.

  A slow, half-embarrassed smile crept across her face. ‘Then, perhaps,’ she said, thrusting out her hand across the table, ‘we should stop calling one another “Doctor” and “Chief Inspector”. My name is Andrea.’

  ‘And mine is Neil.’

  Now, as vividly as the moment itself, he recalled the inexplicable rush of pleasure he had felt as he’d grasped the slender hand.

  As far as he was concerned, the evening had been a great su
ccess. The calibre of acting had surprised him, and he had enjoyed himself in a way he hadn’t done in years. Asking Andrea to go out again had seemed the natural thing to do.

  But now, as he drove up the hill towards the house, he wondered bitterly whether it might have been better if he’d said no instead of yes that day in the cafeteria.

  25

  Thursday, 7 January

  Charlie telephoned just after ten the following day to say that he’d been successful in persuading Miss Crowther to part with a picture of one of the governors, and had sent it on to the lab for comparison with the glass they’d found in Monica’s room.

  ‘I’ve given the information to Cooper,’ he said, ‘but I thought I’d better give you a ring as well. Mind you, it may be a few days before you get the results back. They’re really busy with the back-up from the holidays, and the same goes for the stuff we sent in from the fire yesterday.’

  That wouldn’t sit well with Alcott. The local papers were full of the most recent developments out there at Glenacres, and now the national press had picked it up. The sooner there was an arrest, the happier he would be.

  ‘Thanks for letting me know, Charlie,’ he said. He hung up and sat there drumming fingers on his desk. What if Forensic came up empty? They were good, but if the evidence wasn’t there to begin with...

  He picked up the phone and asked Tregalles to come up.

  Tregalles appeared, coffee mug in hand. ‘I just had a look at the information we have so far on Blake,’ he said as he sat down. ‘Apart from a liking for the ladies - which was why his wife divorced him, by the way - he has no form. The references he gave from the last place he worked stand up. In fact, he was very good at his job, by all accounts.’

  ‘No prior connection with Palmer?’

  ‘Nothing so far.’

  ‘Or with any of the others at Glenacres?’

  ‘No.’

  Paget hunched over the desk. ‘So,’ he said softly, ‘we have a problem. Sergeant. The way things stand, both killings could have been done by either Dr McMillan or Lucas. We need to examine everything again, starting at the very beginning.’

  Tregalles eyed Paget over the rim of the mug as he sipped his coffee. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘So we start with Palmer’s murder, do we?’

  Paget shook his head. ‘No, we start with the death of Monica Shaw. We find out exactly what happened on Christmas Eve; we find out where she went, and we find out why she tried to kill herself when she returned.’

  Tregalles looked sceptical. ‘I don’t see how her death can have anything to do with the other two,’ he objected. ‘I know they came close together, but from all accounts she was a high-strung kid who had been heading for trouble for a long time. Something just tipped her over the edge that night. But the Palmer killing was cold-blooded murder, and so was Blake’s. Anyway, we’ve been over that ground already. I don’t see...’

  ‘That’s just it,’ Paget interrupted. ‘We haven’t. The investigation was dropped because it was decided that there wouldn’t be an inquest. Starkie recommended one, but the coroner chose to ignore his recommendation. That in itself is unusual, and I asked myself why. So I checked with Starkie. He tells me it is the first time that’s happened. Normally, the coroner relies heavily on the judgement of the pathologist, and follows his advice. Someone has been putting the pressure on.’

  ‘But even Starkie said that the cause of death was an anyeurysm; that it could have happened to anyone,’ Tregalles objected. ‘Wouldn’t the coroner take that into account? I mean, when it comes right down to it, she did die of natural causes.’

  Paget sat forward in his seat, elbows on the desk, shoulders hunched as he made his point. ‘There was nothing natural about the way that girl died,’ he growled. ‘My guess is that someone had a quiet word with the coroner. Nothing heavy; just a suggestion, but it would be enough.’

  ‘So, where do we start? Tackle the coroner?’ Tregalles grimaced at the thought.

  ‘That would get us nowhere,’ Paget said. ‘No, we start with someone who has been lying to us from the very beginning. Someone who knows a lot more than she’s told us. We start with Sally Pritchard.’

  Living as she did just down the road from the stables, Sally Pritchard usually went home for lunch, and today was no exception. She’d just finished her second cup of coffee when she heard a car come up the drive and stop. Frowning, she went to the window and looked out.

  The car outside was a police car, and getting out of it were Sergeant Tregalles and a policewoman. Their movements, it seemed to her, were deliberate and businesslike. Neither of them looked particularly friendly.

  The cup she still held in her hand began to shake, and the fears she had thought suppressed came rushing back. She moved away from the window before they saw her, and set the cup down. She stood there for a moment, forcing herself to remain calm. It was silly to get all upset, she told herself. It would just be more questions about Maurice or Victor.

  Even so, she jumped when the heavy knock came on the door.

  She took a deep breath and opened it. ‘Miss Pritchard?’ said Tregalles as if they’d never met before. His face was grave.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The chief inspector would like to see you at headquarters regarding a serious matter concerning the death of Monica Shaw.’

  Sally fought the rising panic. How could they know? It wasn’t possible. Her mouth went dry. ‘Now?’ she said. It came out as a croak.

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  Sally looked beyond Tregalles to where the policewoman stood behind him. The policewoman regarded her with stony eyes. ‘But I have to get back to work.’

  ‘It is important, miss. The chief inspector is waiting.’

  There must be something she could say. Something she could do, but her mind refused to function. All she could think about was that if she refused they would simply handcuff her and take her anyway. ‘I must ring the stables,’ she said abstractedly, and began to turn away.

  She didn’t know quite what happened, but somehow the police woman was there beside her with a hand on her arm.

  ‘You can do that from headquarters,’ the woman said. ‘This is an urgent matter. Miss Pritchard.’

  Sally looked down at the policewoman’s hand. It simply lay there, flat, fingers extended, resting lightly on her arm. She was surprised to see how small the hand was; how neat the manicured nails. Yet she felt she had only to move and the fingers would close like a vice around her arm.

  She swallowed hard. ‘Very well. May I get my coat?’

  The policewoman smiled. It transformed her face. ‘Of course,’ she said pleasantly. ‘You’ll need it. It’s quite cold again today.’

  Sally shivered. Even with her coat on, she found she was still shaking as she locked the door and went with them to the car.

  The interview room was warm but Sally kept her coat on. For all their seeming hurry to get her there, she’d now been sitting on a wooden chair beside the table for almost half an hour. Any attempt to engage the policewoman - not the same one - in conversation had been met with stony silence.

  The only thing on the table was a large, old-fashioned tape recorder, yet it seemed to dominate the room. Her eyes kept coming back to it. Her palms were hot and sweaty; her throat was dry. She would have liked to take her coat off but she was afraid it might be taken as a sign of nervousness, so she kept it on. Besides, she felt just a little safer with it wrapped around her.

  Silly, she told herself as she grew even warmer. But still she kept it on.

  Paget entered the room, followed closely by Tregalles. The chief inspector was carrying a thick folder which he set before him on the table as he took his seat opposite her. His smile was perfunctory; he seemed preoccupied.

  Tregalles slid into a chair at the end of the table.

  Paget said: ‘Thank you for coming in. Miss Pritchard.’ As if she’d had a choice. ‘This will be a recorded interview.’ He snapped the tape recorder switch to On, gav
e the date, time, and location, and who was present in the room. ‘Now, then. Miss Pritchard,’ he said, ‘the questions I am about to ask you relate to the death of Monica Shaw on or about the morning of December twenty-fifth of last year. They arise from certain discrepancies discovered in the statement you gave to the police later that same day, and during subsequent interviews with me and Sergeant Tregalles.’ .

  He paused. ‘If you wish to make a statement at this point, or change your previous statement, you have the opportunity to do so now. Miss Pritchard.’

  It seemed to Sally that she had been holding her breath ever since the chief inspector had entered the room, and now she let it out in a long, drawn-out sigh that sounded more like a whimper. This couldn’t be happening to her. The reels of the tape recorder ground slowly on. Round and round. One of them made a scraping sound on every revolution, and she found herself waiting for it. She coughed, and the needle jumped and fell back, waiting for her words. She took a deep breath.

  ‘May I have a glass of water, please?’ she said in a voice so low the needle barely moved.

  ‘Of course,’ said Paget, nodding to the policewoman behind her, ‘but would you say that a little louder for the tape, please. Miss Pritchard?’

  She cleared her throat and repeated her request.

  The policewoman opened the door and spoke to someone outside. She didn’t leave the room, but a jug of water and several paper cups appeared in a remarkably short space of time. The policewoman set them on the table and filled a cup for Sally. Throughout the whole procedure, no one spoke a word. She gulped the water down, spilling some down the front of her coat.

  ‘You must be warm,’ said Paget. ‘Would you like to take your coat off?’

  Stubbornly, illogically, she shook her head.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked him as she filled the cup again.