Stone Dead

by Frank Smith

  * * *

  PETER FOSTER remained in his dark-room, pretending to work. He could hear them moving about up there in the guest room; hear the murmur of voices, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. He checked the door again to make sure it was locked, then cleared a space on his workbench. Using the stool as an aid, he climbed on to the bench, and stood with his head pressed against the low ceiling, but it was no good; the words were still muffled. Frustrated, he climbed down again and put everything back in place.

  Not that he was really worried that they would find anything, he told himself. He must have been over the room a dozen times to make sure there was nothing to find. He wasn’t out of the woods by a long shot, but without evidence they couldn’t prove a thing.

  So why was he sitting here sweating?

  * * *

  ‘LOOK AT THIS, sir,’ Grace Lovett pulled the sheets back to reveal the mattress. ‘It’s brand new. The sheets are new; the pillowcases are new. They don’t match the ones in the other room, and there are none like these among the linens. I’ve checked.’

  Charlie fingered the material thoughtfully. ‘You think the killing might have happened here?’ he said.

  ‘I’m sure of it,’ said Grace. ‘There’s more. Look here.’ She dropped to her knees and spread her fingers over the carpet. ‘This has been cleaned recently,’ she said.

  ‘You’ve got better eyes than I have, then,’ Charlie said as he bent closer. ‘I don’t see any difference.’

  ‘Well, there is.’ The young woman remembered to whom she was speaking, and modified her tone. ‘I mean, I believe there is, sir. Just smell it. Someone’s rubbed talcum powder or some such thing into the carpet, but you can still smell the spot cleaner underneath.’ She looked up at him. ‘You have to get your nose right down in it, sir.’

  Muttering darkly, her boss got down on his knees beside her, groaning as he did so. ‘And you can wipe that smirk off your face,’ he growled. ‘Just wait until you’ve got spikes on your knees, Lovett. You won’t be smiling then.’ He bent down with his nose almost touching the carpet—and sneezed. He clambered back on his feet, still sneezing.

  ‘God, I’m getting too old for this,’ he grumbled as he tried simultaneously to wipe his eyes and rub his knees. ‘I couldn’t smell anything but talcum powder, but I’ll take your word for it. Take some fibres for analysis, then, but I doubt if we will get anything conclusive out of it.’

  ‘Then try this, sir.’ Grace ran her fingers along the skirting board. She caught the bottom of a join in the wallpaper and peeled it back several inches. ‘See this wallpaper underneath?’ she said. ‘It’s expensive like the paper next door. But this top layer isn’t. It’s similar, but it’s not the same. It’s cheap. Everything else in this cottage is expensive. According to Foster, Lisa Remington had the place redecorated when she moved in. That was less than a year ago. So why do it over with cheap wallpaper like this so soon?’

  ‘Unless you’re trying to cover something up,’ Charlie finished for her. ‘All right, Lovett, you’ve made your point. Let’s hope you’re right. Let’s get this bed shifted and have this wallpaper off.’

  FIVE

  WHILE TREGALLES WENT OUT to the cottage to follow up on anything Charlie’s people might find, Paget remained behind to brief Superintendent Alcott. The super had said nine o’clock, and here it was ten to ten and still no sign of him.

  Not that Paget had been idle all that time. There were other matters to be attended to, and one of those matters was a phone call to Lisa Remington’s agent, Sam Wiengard, in London.

  ‘If she’s in France, then she’s there without my knowledge,’ Wiengard told him bluntly. ‘Not that I’d put it past her, but by God if her picture shows up in some Frog magazine, I’ll have her. I’ll have my commission and the penalty. It’ll cost her, believe me. They all try it on sooner or later, especially when they start to lose it.’

  ‘Are you saying she is no longer in demand?’ Paget asked. ‘It seems to me I’ve seen her picture on the cover of magazines in the shops quite recently.’

  ‘Not on the top-line fashion magazines, you haven’t,’ said Wiengard. ‘The ones you see her on now are second and third-raters. She’s on her way down and she knows it. It’s the looks, Chief Inspector; the little lines around the eyes; the neck. When they are spending more time airbrushing the lines out than they are setting up the shots, the photographers won’t have it. Not when there’s fresh talent coming up all the time. No, Mr Paget, Lisa Remington’s on her way down, and I’d just as soon have her off my books. At least then I’d have Constance off my back.’

  ‘Constance?’

  A low chuckle rumbled down the line. ‘I see you haven’t met Lisa’s mother,’ said Wiengard. ‘You’ve got a treat in store, Chief Inspector. A proper bitch is Constance. Sorry, got to go. Another call. If I hear where Lisa’s working, I’ll give you a bell.’

  Alcott came breezing into Paget’s office at ten past ten. ‘I’ve got five minutes,’ he told Paget briskly, ‘then I’m off to another bloody meeting. Fill me in.’

  Fifteen minutes later Alcott was still there. ‘Nothing back from Starkie on the body, yet?’ he asked. He lit another cigarette; the second since he’d been there.

  ‘Just height, weight, age more or less—that sort of thing so far,’ Paget told him, ‘and Foster denies knowing anyone who fits that description. Not that I put much stock in that. If he didn’t put that body in the well himself, he certainly knows who did.’

  ‘Have you tried Missing Persons?’

  ‘Yes. There is one possible, although there doesn’t appear to be any connection. A man by the name of David Gray fits the general description. Works for a local software firm here in town. He was to be married this month, to the boss’s daughter, no less, and there seems to be some thought that he might have got cold feet. Still, it’s being checked out.’

  Alcott glanced at the time. ‘Keep me posted,’ he said. ‘I presume we can operate from the murder room here on this one?’

  Paget hesitated. ‘I’m not sure, yet,’ he said slowly. ‘I’m not at all satisfied with Foster’s story about his girlfriend. She disappeared about the same time as the body was put in the well, and no one seems to know exactly where she is. I’m just hoping that she turns up soon. Otherwise…’

  ‘Hmm.’ Alcott ground out his cigarette. ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,’ he growled. ‘Not just for the girl’s sake, but for my budget. These on-site incident rooms are becoming damned expensive, and money is tighter than ever, as you well know. So, do me a favour and find the girl.’

  * * *

  PAGET PARKED ON THE ROAD next to the short driveway that led to Bracken Cottage, and got out of the car. The air smelt fresh and clean, and the morning sun warmed his face. March had been unusually mild, and if the forecast could be believed, the fine weather would hold throughout the first week of April at least. Fresh spring greens were everywhere; softening the dark brown latticework of hedges; filling in the winter skeletons of trees; and carpeting the meadows that swept upward to the hills. The plaintive cries of lambs broke the stillness of the air, and were answered by the deeper tones of ewes.

  Paget drew in a deep breath and let it out again slowly. The air even tasted good, and he cast a longing eye at the hills that travelled westward into Wales. He really must find time for hiking this year, he told himself. Perhaps he’d take some time off when this case was over.

  The warm feeling of well-being was shattered by a shout as he made his way up the driveway. ‘Get in there, you great lout!’ he heard someone say, and a tall, fair-haired youth burst through the wall of rhododendron bushes that lined the drive. He was followed swiftly by a uniformed PC. ‘Get on there, dafty,’ the PC said, shoving the lad in the back.

  Despite his size, the boy looked scared to death of the smaller man.

  ‘Just a minute, Constable. What’s going on here?’

  The man saw Paget for the first time. ‘Oh, it’s you
, sir,’ he said, modifying his belligerent tone. ‘Caught the lad skulking in the bushes,’ he explained. ‘And he was carrying this.’ He displayed a shotgun. It could have been the twin of the one that belonged to Foster. He gave the boy another shove between the shoulder blades. ‘Get on with you, dafty,’ he said roughly.

  ‘That’s enough!’ said Paget sharply. He addressed the boy. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked him. ‘And what are you doing here?’

  The boy looked as if he were about to cry. He opened his mouth, but only garbled sounds came out, and Paget realized he couldn’t talk.

  ‘It’s Crazy Eric,’ the PC said. ‘He’s soft in the head, if you know what I mean, sir?’ He pointed a forefinger at his own head and twirled his hand back and forth. ‘Lives at the farm down by the river. Tom Tyson’s boy. It’s Tom’s land between here and the river.’

  ‘And your name, Constable?’ Paget’s voice was dangerously quiet.

  ‘Mosely, sir. PC Mosely from Clunbridge,’ the man said with a self-congratulatory smirk.

  ‘Mosely,’ Paget repeated softly. ‘Thank you. I’ll take the gun and see to the boy.’ He held out his hand for the gun, and Mosely handed it over. ‘And if I ever see or even hear of you mistreating anyone like that again, especially someone who can’t fight back, Mosely, I shall see to it personally that you spend the rest of your natural life patrolling Godford Ridge. Do I make myself clear?’

  Mosely blanched and swallowed hard. Godford Ridge, better known among the locals as God-forsaken Ridge, was the nether end of nowhere. To be banished there was to say goodbye to any future on the force.

  ‘But I was only…’ He saw the look in Paget’s eye and stopped. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said meekly. Paget dismissed him with an angry wave of the hand, waiting until the constable had gone before turning to the boy.

  ‘No need to be afraid,’ he said gently. ‘I’d just like to talk to you for a few minutes. Eric, is it? Is that your name?’

  The boy eyed him suspiciously for a moment, then nodded.

  ‘Right, then, Eric. Do you have cartridges for your gun?’ The boy delved into his pocket and held out three cartridges. ‘May I have one?’ Paget asked him. The boy hesitated, first looking at the cartridges, then at Paget, then back at the cartridges again. A shy smile crossed his face as he picked one out and thrust it at Paget.

  ‘Thank you. Thank you very much, Eric,’ Paget said. ‘I’ll let you have it back in a day or two.’ The boy nodded happily.

  Peter Foster appeared at the door. Eric had his back to him, and it was only when Foster spoke that he became aware of him. His reaction was immediate. He whirled, snatched the gun from Paget’s hands and fled, crashing through the rhododendrons as if someone were after him. He went over the wall at the bottom of the garden and disappeared from sight.

  Foster looked stunned. He stood there staring after the boy and scratched his head. ‘I was just going to ask him if he wanted a cup of tea,’ he told Paget. ‘I saw him from the window, and he loves tea. I can’t think what’s got into him. That’s the first time he’s done that.’ He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Usually, he walks right in. It’s a bit embarrassing at times. He has trouble grasping the concept of privacy, and Lisa was always forgetting to lock the door.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the boy?’

  ‘Brain damaged when he was born,’ said Foster. ‘He can’t talk, of course, at least, not in the normal sense of the word, but we manage to communicate. He understands some things you say to him, but not others. Hard to say what his mental age would be. Three, four, something like that. It seems to change from day to day. Sometimes he seems older, but as I say, it comes and goes. We’ve always got along—at least, until now. Don’t know what’s got into him.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Twenty-two. Works on the farm with his dad. Hard worker, too. Loves the outdoors. Loves animals. Has a way with them. It’s as if they understand he’s no threat to them. Takes them under his wing if they’re sick or hurt. Cares for them, and they always seem to get well. If I believed in that sort of thing, I’d say Eric is a natural healer. Except rabbits. Eric hates rabbits because they cause so much damage. Loves flowers. I don’t know how he does it, but he finds flowers in the hedgerows even in the dead of winter. Tiny ones, mind you, but flowers nevertheless. He brings them for Lisa because he knows she likes them, and she makes a fuss over him when he does.’

  Foster glanced over his shoulder as he heard the heavy tread of someone descending the stairs, and Tregalles appeared at his back. The sergeant looked past Foster to Paget.

  ‘Charlie has something to show you upstairs,’ he said quietly. He turned his attention to Foster. ‘You might be interested in this as well, sir,’ he said.

  Foster saw the look on Tregalles’s face, and he felt as if someone had just walked over his grave. ‘Right,’ he said, attempting to sound brisk. ‘Shall we go and see what this is all about, Chief Inspector?’

  It was a brave attempt, but his eyes betrayed him, and as he started up the stairs it was in the manner of a man condemned.

  SIX

  EVEN AS THEY MOUNTED the narrow stairs, Peter Foster still clung desperately to the hope that it would be something else they would want explained. It just wasn’t possible, he told himself. He had been so very careful. There was no way they could tell.

  But all hope vanished when he stepped into the room. The bed had been pulled aside, the newly painted skirting board pulled away from the base of the wall, and the wallpaper stripped off. No one said a word. There was no need.

  The blood-spattered wall told its own story, and the last faint hope died within him. He began to cry. Tears flowed unchecked down his face as he stumbled from the room. Someone—he had no idea who it was—helped him down the stairs, and from that moment on his memory of events became a series of blurred images.

  Foster was silent throughout the ride into Broadminster in the back of the police car. He dimly remembered being helped from the car, a long walk through corridors, stumbling up some stairs, and being led into a room. He sat down when someone told him to, and put his head in his hands.

  So this was what it was like. He felt as if he’d been through it all before. He’d seen it on TV so many times: the bare walls; the wooden table; the hard wooden chairs. And, of course, the tape recorder. He watched dully as Paget set the tape recorder in motion and entered time and date and the names of those present. He felt quite detached. It was as if he were watching from a distance.

  Paget said something to him, but it didn’t register. The chief inspector seemed to be waiting, but he didn’t know what to say. No one had thought to give him a script.

  So he said the first thing that came into his head. ‘She didn’t do it, you know. She couldn’t. It must have been an accident.’

  ‘Who didn’t do it, Mr Foster?’

  ‘Lisa. She couldn’t have. Not deliberately. It was Merrick. They must have fought.’

  ‘Let’s go back to the beginning,’ said Paget. ‘Who is Merrick?’

  ‘Lisa’s husband. The man in the well. I put him there. It was all my doing. Lisa had nothing to do with that. She wasn’t even there.’

  ‘From the beginning, please, Mr Foster,’ said Paget patiently. ‘Let’s start with the identity of the dead man. You say his name is Merrick, and he is Lisa Remington’s husband?’

  ‘That’s right.’ This was better. He didn’t need a script. All Paget wanted was an explanation, and he could give him that. Suddenly, it all seemed so simple.

  ‘See, Remington is Lisa’s maiden name,’ Foster said earnestly. ‘And her professional name, but she was married to Merrick. Sean Merrick is a fashion designer. That’s how they met. Irish. Charm the balls off a brass monkey when he’s sober, but a wifebeating bastard when he’s drunk. Which is most of the time these days. Lisa is divorcing him for cruelty, but Merrick wouldn’t have it. Kept coming round to the cottage when I was away, pleading for her to come back to him. Said he hadn’t been a
ble to work since she left him. He even brought his latest designs to show her how bad they were. Tried to make her feel guilty so she would go back to him. When that didn’t work he beat her up. He could have killed her. Didn’t break any bones, but he could have done. I brought her in to the hospital. You can check. It was reported to the police; I insisted on that.’ Foster’s lip curled slightly. ‘Not that anyone seemed very interested,’ he went on. ‘And Merrick lives in London, so I don’t think anything was done about it.’

  It was easier now that he could talk about it. Now he wanted everyone to know. If he could just explain.

  ‘How long ago was this?’

  Foster thought. ‘Five, six weeks ago,’ he said. ‘That’s why I made sure that Lisa kept the shotgun handy behind the door. In case Merrick decided to come back again, which of course he did.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Foster, then went on to explain as he saw the look of surprise on Paget’s face. ‘You see, I was away from the Monday to the Wednesday.’ Foster took out a slim diary and consulted it. ‘March 11th to 13th,’ he said. ‘I got back sometime after eight that night, and I knew something was wrong straightaway. You see, the door was open, and Merrick’s design portfolio was there at the bottom of the stairs. So was the gun. It was lying on the floor just inside the door.’ He was talking faster now, and colour had returned to his face.

  ‘I was scared,’ he went on. ‘Afraid for Lisa. I picked up the gun and went through the house, yelling my head off, but there was no one downstairs. I felt sure that Merrick had surprised Lisa; she was always forgetting to lock the door. All sorts of things went through my mind. I was mad with worry. I was about to phone the police when I realized I hadn’t been upstairs. I went up, not expecting to find anything, but then I saw the light was on in the guest room. I went in…’ Foster buried his face in his hands and shuddered. ‘It was horrible. I thought I was going to be sick.’