Stone Dead

by Frank Smith

  ‘What did you see, Mr Foster?’

  Foster raised his head. His eyes were moist, and he stared straight ahead as if reliving the scene. ‘Merrick was there on the bed,’ he said. ‘He was naked, and his head … Oh, God! It was awful. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I thought Merrick must have come back again; they must have struggled…’ Foster’s shoulders shook with emotion.

  ‘And where was Lisa?’ Paget asked.

  Foster stared at him for a long moment. ‘She wasn’t there,’ he said. ‘She wasn’t there, and I don’t know where she is.’

  * * *

  THEY HAD BEEN THERE more than an hour. The room was warm, and both Foster and Tregalles had discarded their jackets, but Paget had kept his on. It was as if he were oblivious to everything other than Foster’s testimony.

  ‘I burned everything, scattered the ashes, then buried everything that wouldn’t burn,’ Foster had told them. Asked what he had done with the mattress, he said he had soaked it in petrol and burned it as well, then taken the metal skeleton to the local tip.

  ‘Did it never occur to you to call the police?’ Paget had asked.

  ‘I couldn’t, don’t you see?’ said Foster miserably. ‘I knew Lisa couldn’t have killed Merrick deliberately, but I couldn’t take a chance on you believing that. I just couldn’t, that’s all.’

  ‘And you still say you have no idea where Miss Remington is?’ It was Tregalles who asked the question. ‘You haven’t heard from her or spoken to her? She simply vanished? Doesn’t that strike you as odd, Mr Foster? If what you are suggesting actually happened, don’t you think she would at least ring you to say she was all right?’

  Foster avoided the sergeant’s eyes. ‘She’s frightened,’ he said. ‘She may think someone’s listening in—I don’t know.’

  ‘Where would she go? You say you’ve tried all her friends and they say they haven’t seen her. Where else could she go?’

  ‘I’ve told you over and over again, I simply do not know!’ Foster burst out. ‘Perhaps one of her friends is lying. Perhaps Lisa told them not to say anything. Don’t you think I’ve been over this in my mind a thousand times?’

  ‘How would you describe your relationship with Miss Remington?’ Tregalles asked.

  ‘We love each other,’ Foster said simply. Then, with more spirit, ‘We’ve been living together for almost a year, for God’s sake. What do you think our relationship was—is?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. That’s why I asked,’ said Tregalles. ‘Would you say you’re a jealous man?’

  Foster’s eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said. ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘I just wondered how you might react if you came home to find Miss Remington in bed with her husband, that’s all, sir.’

  Foster half rose from his seat, his face livid. ‘You bastard!’ he yelled. ‘Lisa would never…’

  But Tregalles cut him off. ‘By your own admission, sir, Merrick was in your spare bed and he was naked when he was shot. Now why would he be in bed in that condition if he were alone? Wouldn’t it make more sense if someone was in there with him? Someone like Lisa Remington?’

  Foster, pale now, sank slowly into his seat. ‘You’re suggesting that I killed Merrick,’ he breathed. His voice rose. ‘And that I killed Lisa?’

  Tregalles shrugged. ‘Look at it from my point of view, Mr Foster,’ he said reasonably. ‘Wouldn’t you say it’s a possibility?’

  Foster clamped his mouth shut.

  Paget, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, stood up. ‘I think you’d better come back to the cottage with us, Mr Foster, and show us exactly where you buried everything,’ he said. ‘You can sign a statement later.’ He paused. ‘But I am curious about one thing. You say Merrick came to the cottage on more than one occasion. Came by car, did he?’

  ‘That’s right. He drives a Volvo.’

  ‘So where is his car, Mr Foster? Obviously, Mr Merrick didn’t drive it away that day, so where is it? Did you get rid of that, too?’

  ‘No. It—I don’t know. It wasn’t there. He must have … I just don’t know.’

  * * *

  PAGET SURVEYED all that remained of Merrick’s clothing and possessions: a few melted buttons, tiny pieces of metal from a zip-fastener, the charred remains of leather shoes, and a few bits of cloth that had somehow escaped the fire. Neither was there much left of the man’s other belongings. A melted pen, a digital watch, a pocket calculator, several coins, nail clippers, a comb, two sets of keys, and a few odd bits of leather that were once part of a wallet.

  The heavy covers of the portfolio were identifiable, but there was nothing left of Merrick’s designs. The metal bases of two cartridges were there as well, but they’d been hammered flat. They went over to the lab along with everything else, but it seemed highly unlikely that the lab would be able to match them to a particular gun.

  ‘And nothing belonging to Lisa Remington,’ said Paget thoughtfully as he surveyed the items spread out on a plastic sheet.

  A description of both Lisa Remington and her car had gone out earlier that day, and a description of Merrick’s car would be in circulation by the evening. Finding Lisa Remington had become a priority, and Paget had discussed the matter with Superintendent Alcott before returning to Bracken Cottage.

  ‘I’m afraid we’re going to need the mobile murder room,’ he’d told Alcott. ‘I think there’s a very good chance that Lisa Remington is dead, and we are going to have to extend our enquiries.’

  Alcott drew deeply on his cigarette. ‘What about Foster?’ he asked. ‘Do you have enough to charge him?’

  Paget shook his head. ‘Not enough to satisfy the DPP,’ he said. ‘Foster has admitted concealing evidence, but we’ll need more before we can pin a charge of murder on him.’

  Alcott sighed. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I suppose you’ll want Len Ormside out there to run the mobile unit?’

  ‘I’d appreciate it, sir. Thank you.’

  ‘Just wrap this thing up fast,’ said Alcott. ‘We’re already over budget for the first quarter, so for God’s sake go easy, especially on the overtime.’

  One of the diggers spoke to Paget. ‘I don’t think there is anything more to be found down there, sir,’ he said. ‘The ground is rock solid. Shall we fill it in?’

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Paget. He’d hoped for more; something that would at least give them a lead, but there was nothing. The well had been completely cleared of stones, and the missing coins found, but there was no sign of anything belonging to either Merrick or Lisa Remington. And the ashes of the fire in the garden had been sifted without result.

  The sound of a car turning into the driveway caught Paget’s attention. A door slammed, and a shrill voice could be heard demanding to know what was going on. A uniformed constable appeared, and beside him was a woman. ‘Where’s Lisa?’ she was saying. ‘And where’s Peter?’

  ‘If you’ll just come with me, madam…’ the constable was saying, but that was as far as he got.

  ‘Don’t you “madam” me, young man. I demand to know what’s going on here. Where’s my daughter?’

  Constance Remington. Paget was reminded of Sam Wiengard’s words, and he braced himself. Beside him Tregalles drew in his breath and said, ‘Good God!’

  The woman must be sixty if a day, the chief inspector thought. And thin. Excruciatingly thin. Her face was long and narrow, gaunt beneath a mass of hair whose colour defied description. Flaming brass was the closest Paget could come, and that, he felt, was being charitable. Her eyes were large and heavily made up, and her make-up looked as if it had been applied with a trowel. Her hands were skeletal, seeming to consist of little more than bones—with a ring on every bony finger.

  Paget was left with the impression that he was seeing a caricature of the woman rather than the woman herself, but for all that, Constance Remington was beautifully dressed. She wore a two-piece suit of soft lilac, with a high-necked blouse to match. The jacke
t was slightly flared at the hips to give shape to her spartan frame, while the calf-length skirt was straight, tubular, to minimize the stick-like quality of her legs. Matching high-heeled shoes and handbag completed the ensemble.

  Paget stepped forward. ‘Mrs Remington?’ he said. ‘I’m Chief Inspector Paget. Perhaps I can help.’

  The woman stopped in front of him, and the constable departed hastily. ‘How do you know my name?’ she demanded. ‘And why are you here? Where’s Lisa?’

  ‘I was rather hoping you might be able to tell me,’ Paget said. ‘But first things first.’ He began to walk slowly toward the house, and she fell into step beside him. An overpowering wave of perfume made him catch his breath. It was nothing like the subtle fragrance Paget had come to associate with her daughter.

  ‘Peter Foster gave me your name,’ he said, ‘and we are here because we are investigating a suspicious death.’

  ‘Who?’ the woman demanded sharply.

  ‘Sean Merrick,’ Paget told her. ‘Your son-in-law, or so I’m told.’

  ‘Sean’s dead? How? What happened?’

  ‘He was shot. Here in the cottage.’

  ‘Not by Peter, surely? He wouldn’t have the guts.’

  ‘That’s what we are trying to find out, Mrs Remington.’ As they rounded the corner, Paget caught a glimpse of a taxi backing into the road, and a suitcase stood on the doorstep of the cottage. ‘That was your taxi, I take it?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘Now that you’re here, I would like to ask you some questions,’ he said, ‘but I’m afraid you won’t be able to stay here.’

  Constance bristled. ‘Why not? I always do.’

  ‘Because it’s now a crime scene,’ Paget explained patiently. ‘I’m sorry, but I can have someone run you back to town.’

  But Constance Remington had picked up her suitcase and marched into the house. She went straight into the living-room, set the case down, and turned to face Paget with a ‘So there!’ look on her face. ‘Peter!’ she called. The shrill voice echoed in the empty house. ‘Where is Peter?’ she demanded.

  ‘He’s unavailable at the moment. He’s helping us with our enquiries.’

  ‘You mean he did it? My God! I didn’t think he had it in him. Good for Peter. It’s time someone took care of that drunken so-called son-in-law of mine. Save Lisa a lot of time and money with the divorce proceedings, at least. Now, what’s this about not knowing where Lisa is?’ A wariness crept into her eyes. ‘You can’t think that she had anything to do with this?’ Her tone threatened dire consequences if he said yes.

  ‘Until we talk to her, we won’t know whether she did or not. Tell me, when did you last hear from her?’

  Mrs Remington opened her handbag, took out a cigarette, lit it, and blew out a cloud of smoke before answering. ‘Peter kept telling me some cock-and-bull story about her being in France,’ she said, ‘but I didn’t believe him. He just didn’t want me coming down here.’ She frowned in concentration. ‘It must be all of three weeks ago when I last spoke to her. I phoned on the Sunday as I usually do—she’d never think of phoning me, of course—do you have children, Mr … What was your name again?’

  ‘Paget,’ he said. ‘And, no, I don’t have children, Mrs Remington.’

  ‘You’re lucky,’ she told him bluntly. ‘I spent the best part of my life getting Lisa to where she is today. Everything she has, she owes to me. Oh, yes, Mr Paget, it may not look like it now, but I’ve gone without. I know what it’s like to hide behind the door when the rent man comes round, just so Lisa could have her dance lessons. And deportment, and voice. Cost a packet, that lot did, I can tell you. Not that I begrudge it, mind, but a bit of gratitude wouldn’t come amiss. But then, it’s the same with all of them today, isn’t it? Selfish. No thought for anybody but themselves.’

  Paget, who had been looking at a pocket calendar, was fast losing patience. ‘Would that have been March 10th, Mrs Remington?’ She looked at him blankly. ‘When you last spoke to Lisa.’ He offered her the calendar.

  Constance Remington scrutinized it. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ she said. She drew deeply on her cigarette, then looked round for somewhere to dispose of it. Seeing no ashtray, she dropped it on the stone hearth and crushed it with her shoe.

  ‘Do you remember what you talked about? Did Lisa mention any plans? Anything like that?’

  ‘Not that I remember. She did say something about coming up to town in the next week or so, but that’s all. That’s where she’ll be now, I shouldn’t wonder. She gets bored, stuck away in the country like this, miles from anywhere. I’m surprised she’s put up with it for so long. Mind you—’ Mrs Remington glanced around as if afraid of being overheard ‘—I shouldn’t be surprised if she leaves him, specially after this.’

  ‘Leaves Peter Foster?’

  Constance shrugged and waved a deprecating hand. ‘You must admit, it’s a bit—primitive,’ she said. ‘Not Lisa’s thing at all. I knew it wouldn’t last, but she thought it would be so “romantic”. All that country air; going for nice long walks. Rubbish, I told her. Lisa wouldn’t walk ten yards if there was a car to take her. Mind you, it was the same with the others, but at least she doesn’t intend to marry Peter. Good thing, too. No spine. No backbone at all.’

  Mrs Remington paused. ‘Still, he must have some backbone, I suppose,’ she mused, ‘if he killed Sean.’

  ‘No one is suggesting that Mr Foster killed anyone,’ Paget told her. ‘He is merely…’

  ‘… helping you with your enquiries,’ Constance finished for him. ‘I know, I know, but I wasn’t born yesterday. It amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it?’

  There was no point in arguing with the woman. ‘Do you have an address for Mr Merrick?’ he asked her. ‘Mr Foster told us he moved recently to a flat in Fulham, but he didn’t know the exact address.’

  Mrs Remington nodded. ‘My address book is in my case,’ she told him, ‘but, yes, I have it.’

  ‘What about Mr Merrick’s next of kin? Apart from Miss Remington, of course.’

  Mrs Remington grimaced. ‘I don’t think he had any,’ she said. ‘That is, not here in England. I seem to remember his speaking of some distant cousins in Ireland, but that’s all. He was Irish, you know. Straight out of the bog. Oh, he was full of the blarney, and I must admit he had a talent for design, but he had the manners of a pig. He used to knock Lisa about, you know. That’s why she left him. They were only married six months. Charming devil when he was sober, but a bastard when he was drunk. Lisa would have reported him, but I talked her out of it. That sort of publicity would have finished her. No one wants a battered bride as a model. He left her face alone, of course. He was clever enough to know where the bread-and-butter came from, but he used the rest of her for a punching bag.

  ‘And he didn’t take kindly to her leaving. Came down here several times trying to get her to go back to him, and I must admit I was afraid for her. I was glad when she said Peter had shown her how to use the shotgun. Give the bugger a load of shot up the arse, I told her. See how he likes it.’ She stopped as she realized what she had said. ‘I didn’t mean…’

  ‘I’d like Mr Merrick’s address before you go,’ Paget said. ‘And the address of any of Lisa’s friends.’

  The look on Constance Remington’s face hardened. ‘But I’m not leaving,’ she said flatly. ‘I’m staying here until all this is sorted out.’

  ‘We will need the address of where you will be staying,’ said Paget, ‘but I can assure you, Mrs Remington, that you are not staying here. Shall we go?’

  SEVEN

  Wednesday 3rd April

  THE MOBILE FORWARD incident room, to give it its official name, was already in place on the strip of land immediately behind Bracken Cottage by the time Paget arrived at eight thirty. Technicians from British Telecom were busy hooking up telephone and data lines, and one computer was already up and working. And working around them were the men and women who would be interviewing the local peopl
e, preparing and writing up statements, sifting information, and co-ordinating every scrap of intelligence into a comprehensive whole.

  Overseeing all this activity was Len Ormside, a sergeant with thirty years’ experience, and this was what he did best. He knew the area; he knew the people; and he was very good at anticipating the needs of his superiors. Tall, thin, sharp-featured, he moved with the deliberation of a very methodical man—and being methodical was what made him ideal for the job.

  ‘I want you to concentrate on the list Foster gave us of all the people they know and associate with round here,’ Paget told him. ‘I want to know if anyone saw or heard anything at all unusual during the week starting March 10th. That was when Mrs Remington last spoke with her daughter, and I’m assuming that Merrick was killed after that. Starkie cannot fix the time of death any closer than sometime in that week, so I’m afraid you’ll have to cast your net wide. I want to know if anyone saw Foster during that time, and if so, exactly when and under what circumstances. I want to know when Merrick arrived and how he got here, because, according to Foster, he didn’t come by car. Foster could be lying, of course, but whether he is or not, we still need to know what happened to Merrick’s car.

  ‘Even more importantly, find out anything you can about Lisa Remington. Did anyone see her leave the cottage? If so, when? Any scrap of information at all. We know she hasn’t used her bank card since the end of February, neither has she used a credit card since 8th March. Tregalles is on his way to London to talk to a woman Foster tells us is Lisa’s best friend, and to check out Merrick’s flat. Although it seems unlikely, it’s just possible that Lisa is hiding out there, but in any case we need information on the man.’

  Qrmside made a wry face. ‘Do you really think the lass is alive?’ he said, voicing the thought that had lain unspoken in Paget’s mind since yesterday. ‘I’d say it’s much more likely that Foster came home unexpectedly, caught them at it, and blasted away with the gun.’

  Paget nodded. ‘You may well be right, Len,’ he agreed, ‘but if that’s what happened, what did he do with the body? There is no evidence that anything else has been buried on Foster’s land. And why, having dumped one body down the well, didn’t he dump the other one down there as well? The way I see it, there are three possibilities: it could be as you said, Foster killed them both; it could also be that he killed Merrick, and Lisa ran out and got away before he could stop her; or it could be that Lisa killed Merrick herself and has gone into hiding. Or, come to think of it, there is a fourth possibility: perhaps Lisa Remington wasn’t there at all when Merrick was killed.’