Stone Dead

by Frank Smith

  Ormside sighed. ‘Then we’ll just have to do it the hard way,’ he said heavily, ‘and check out all the likely pubs. Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘I could use a refresher on self-defence,’ Tregalles said ruefully. ‘The bastard’s as strong as a bloody ox, and he took me by surprise, but I’ll live.’

  ‘Good. Did Merrick give you any idea how far he might have gone before he stopped?’

  ‘No, but I doubt if it was far. The man can’t go ten minutes without a drink, and with a load of buckshot up his arse, I doubt if it would be very comfortable driving.’

  ‘You’re probably right. I’ll get someone on it right away. Anything you want me to tell Paget when he checks in?’

  ‘Just tell him I’m on my way back. The locals can take care of things at this end. Oh, and Len, perhaps you could let Audrey know I’ll be back this evening.’ Tregalles paused. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything? About Olivia, I mean.’

  Ormside smiled into the phone. ‘I spoke to Jim Dean,’ he said. ‘He sent Molly Forsythe over there this afternoon. Nothing to report so far. He says he’ll let me know if there is.’

  Tregalles’s sigh of relief could be heard over the phone. ‘Thanks,’ he said simply. ‘Tell Jim I owe him one. On second thoughts, I’ll tell him myself when I get home.’

  FOURTEEN

  FRANK PORTER was nervous. He tried to appear relaxed, tilting back in his office chair behind the desk, but his big hands moved constantly as he talked. His broad, square fingers ran lightly over the ends of the armrests of the chair; traced the edges of his desk; moved a memo pad a millimetre this way, then a millimetre back.

  ‘Tell me what you know about David Gray,’ Paget said.

  Porter’s mouth turned down at the mention of Gray. He was a big man, heavy-set, and would probably run to fat by the time he was fifty. In fact, he was only thirty-five, but he had the settled look of middle age, and his hair was already turning grey.

  ‘Can’t say I know much about him at all,’ he said heavily. ‘He was good at his work; I’ll give him that, but…’ He shrugged as if to say that was as far as he was prepared to go.

  ‘But what?’ Paget prompted him. ‘If my information is correct, the two of you have worked together for something like two years now, so you must have learned something about the man; formed some opinion.’

  Porter’s fingers slid along the edge of the desk and back again. ‘I don’t really know what it is you’re after,’ he said. ‘Yes, I worked with him; so did a lot of others, but I know virtually nothing of his personal life, and I assume that’s what you’re interested in.’

  Paget tried another tack. ‘Did you like him, then?’

  Porter grimaced and fiddled with the memo pad. ‘He was all right,’ he said grudgingly.

  ‘So you didn’t like him.’

  ‘I didn’t say that. I said he was…’

  ‘I know what you said, Mr Porter,’ said Paget testily. ‘You said absolutely nothing. Did you dislike him because he was about to marry Miss Freeman?’

  Porter looked startled. His big hands stopped moving, and his face began to turn colour. ‘I don’t think that is any of your business,’ he said huffily. ‘And I’ll thank you to keep Miss Freeman’s name out of this.’

  Paget leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. ‘Let me put it this way, Mr Porter: David Gray was murdered; killed by someone who disliked him intensely. Now, I’m told that you and Miss Freeman enjoyed a close relationship for several years before David Gray came along and took her away from you. If I were in your shoes, I wouldn’t be too happy about that. Especially if the girl I’d hoped to marry was half owner of the business where I worked.’

  Porter’s face grew red. ‘That is insulting!’ he said hoarsely. ‘If anyone was trying to get his foot in the door, it was Gray.’ His voice shook. ‘I tried to tell Janet. I tried to warn her about him, but she wouldn’t listen. Gray wasn’t in love with her. He was using her. She was a means to an end, that’s all.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  Porter opened his mouth, then clamped it shut again. His fingers played with the memo pad, then slid back and forth along the edge of the desk. ‘The circumstances of his death,’ he said at last. ‘That shows what he was like.’

  ‘What do you know about the circumstances of his death?’ asked Paget sharply.

  Porter looked startled. ‘Just what Mike … I mean, he said that Gray was involved with some girl.’

  ‘But you said you warned Miss Freeman about him before that,’ Paget said. ‘Did you offer her any proof?’

  ‘He was ambitious,’ Porter muttered.

  ‘A lot of people are ambitious, Mr Porter. Aren’t you?’

  Porter scowled. ‘Yes, of course, but Gray was different. Always out for the main chance. Cut-throat. That was his style.’

  Paget shrugged. ‘I’m given to understand that this is a highly competitive business,’ he said. ‘And I’ve also been told that David Gray was good at his job. According to Mr Freeman, he brought in more new business than anyone else. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘But at what cost?’ Porter burst out. ‘Tell me that. He’d cut corners, lie, cheat, do anything to get a contract. You ask any of our competitors.’

  ‘Isn’t that the way of business today?’ Paget asked, deliberately goading the man.

  ‘Not for Freeman Protronics, it isn’t,’ said Porter stoutly. ‘Mike Freeman built this business on honesty, and Gray was dragging the name of Freeman Protronics into the mud. Yes, he brought in new business; yes, he was probably the most innovative program designer we’ve ever had, but he had the morals of a bloody tom-cat. He…’

  ‘Morals?’ said Paget softly. ‘Are we still talking about business, Mr Porter? Or are we talking about something else?’

  ‘Both,’ snapped Porter harshly. He glanced at the closed door as if to satisfy himself that no one outside the office could hear him. ‘I know for a fact that he got the Robinson contract by—’ Porter raised his hands and curled his index fingers to indicate quotes ‘—“chatting up” their systems manager, Freda Lyndhurst.’

  Paget pretended not to understand. ‘Isn’t “chatting people up” normal in business?’ he asked.

  Porter shook his head angrily. ‘You know what I mean. Screwing the systems manager to get a contract isn’t what I regard as normal. And before you ask, I was there, Chief Inspector.’ He stabbed a stubby finger into the surface of the desk. ‘We’d been trying to get that contract for close to six months, but Cycom had the edge. Mike sent Gray and me into Birmingham to try one last time. We spent the whole day trying to convince them that we could do a better job for them in the long term, even if our price was a bit higher, but we were getting nowhere.

  ‘I was ready to come home, but Gray persuaded Freda to have dinner with him. He told her I had to get back, but he was free for the evening, and he wanted to show her there were no hard feelings. I didn’t have to get back, but what could I say? Anyway, the long and the short of it was that he took her out and didn’t come back until the next morning. But he had the contract.’ Despite his obvious disapproval, Porter’s face registered something akin to grudging admiration.

  ‘This was before he became engaged to Miss Freeman?’ Paget said.

  Porter nodded. ‘Three weeks before,’ he said. ‘I had no idea at the time that they were even thinking of becoming engaged. But don’t you see? He must have been on the point of proposing when this happened, but it didn’t stop him.’

  ‘Is that when you warned Miss Freeman about him? Did you tell her about that particular incident?’

  Porter’s hands began their rapid play along the edge of the desk once more, and his face grew sullen. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I mean, how could I? Mike was so pleased that we’d got the contract, he gave both of us a bonus. Gray never mentioned how he’d got it, so Mike assumed we were both responsible.’ Porter shrugged in a helpless fashion. ‘I see now that it was Gray’s way of kee
ping me quiet. His letting Mike think it was a joint effort.’

  The picture of the man who had died in Lisa Remington’s bed was becoming clearer. Gray had been an opportunist and a manipulator, and a man like that could have many enemies. There could be little doubt that Porter resented him, possibly even hated him, but whether that hatred could be translated into murder was open to question.

  ‘When David Gray left the office on the afternoon of March 12th, you were here in your office, I believe,’ said Paget.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And you followed him out?’

  Porter looked startled. ‘No,’ he protested. ‘No, that’s not right. It was a few minutes after; several minutes after. It was Mike who … who came in and suggested going for a ride. We didn’t leave until some time after Gray.’

  Paget sighed. ‘Which was it, Mr Porter? A few minutes? Several minutes? Some time after? Could you be more specific? I have been led to believe that Mr Freeman was anxious to stop Gray before he left because he wanted to use the company car—or have you drive him, at least.’

  Porter seemed at a loss for an answer. The memo pad was moved a fraction of a millimetre once more as Porter’s brows drew together in a worried frown. ‘I—I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘It’s possible. I don’t remember exactly.’

  ‘Was it usual for Mr Freeman to suggest going for a ride in the middle of the afternoon?’

  Porter flushed. ‘Well, no, not ordinarily,’ he admitted. ‘But he wanted to discuss something with me, and he didn’t want to do it in the office. He can’t drive since he had the heart attack, so he asked if we could take my car.’

  ‘If that was the case, then why the big rush to stop Gray from using the company car? Especially if he had to go out on a service call.’

  Porter’s frown deepened. ‘As I said, I don’t remember, exactly. You’d have to ask Mike about that.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘Eh?’ Porter looked up at the ceiling for inspiration. ‘Oh, yes. I see.’ He lowered his voice and leaned forward across the desk. ‘We didn’t actually go anywhere,’ he said, then corrected himself. ‘What I mean is, we just drove around.’

  ‘Following Gray?’

  Colour flooded into Porter’s face. ‘Of course not. We were talking, that’s all.’

  ‘Talking?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Paget looked sceptical.

  Porter leaned closer. ‘I must insist that you keep this to yourself,’ he said conspiratorially. ‘You see, Mike has been toying with the idea of opening up a new office in Bristol, and he wanted to talk it over with me away from the office. It would mean that we might have to move some of the people from here to Bristol, and Mike doesn’t want anything to leak out until the plans are finalized.’

  ‘I see. You say you just drove aimlessly around,’ Paget said. ‘Around town? Out in the country?’

  ‘No! I—I mean, no, of course not.’ Porter sat back and put his hands together as if to keep them still. ‘We drove around town for a while, then parked by the river for a few minutes. That’s all. We were only gone for about an hour.’

  ‘And you didn’t see Gray while you were driving around?’

  ‘No. Absolutely not.’

  ‘So you have no idea where he went?’

  Porter passed a hand through his hair. He looked a bit desperate. ‘I’ve told you everything I know,’ he insisted. ‘I can’t tell you anything else.’

  Paget didn’t believe him. Porter was a poor liar, but with so little to go on, there was nothing to be gained by pressing him. His dislike for Gray was evident, but had he hated the man enough to kill him? It was certainly not out of the question. Gray had come along and taken everything away from him: his girl, his preferred status in the company, and his future prospects. Together, they might prove a powerful motive for getting rid of Gray, and if the opportunity presented itself …

  But if that were the case, where did Mike Freeman fit in?

  * * *

  ‘YOU CAN WAIT by the gate for your dad,’ Audrey said, ‘but don’t go outside. Remember what I told you, Olivia? I don’t want you out on the street alone.’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’ Olivia Tregalles made her way down the path to the iron gate and lifted the latch. She couldn’t see all the way down the road unless she stepped outside, and it was only a few steps. With one eye on the front window to see if her mother was watching, she stepped outside on to the pavement and closed the gate behind her. With one hand still on the latch ready to jump back inside if she heard her mother coming, she waited.

  The wind had changed, and with it came the smell of far-off rain. Clouds thickened in the evening sky, and street lights flickered, undecided whether to stay on or not. A slanting ray of sunshine broke through the shifting clouds, illuminating the chalked outlines of hop-scotch squares a few yards away.

  Olivia looked up and down the road. There wasn’t a sign of anyone. With a backward glance at the window, she ran to the chalk-line and hopped through the squares. She needed a stone. There was one in the gutter; a small one, but it would do. Olivia went through the squares again; toppled half-way through and began again.

  The grey-haired man in the car a few houses down the street watched her. The familiar feeling gripped him and he stirred restlessly. Back and forth the girl skipped and hopped; back and forth, concentrating on getting it right.

  He opened the door of the car and got out. The sun had gone, and it was almost dark. He felt the prickle of sweat across his brow as he walked slowly in the shadows before crossing the road. Don’t move too quickly, he warned himself. Don’t frighten her.

  He stepped off the kerb.

  The lights of a car came round the corner, sweeping the other side of the road. The girl looked up—and scurried back to the gate as she recognized her father’s car.

  The grey-haired man stepped back on the pavement and walked back to his car. He got in, started the engine, and pulled away from the kerb as Tregalles got out of the car.

  * * *

  PETER FOSTER put the phone down. Another cancellation. That was the fifth one. He sank back into the padded leather chair. He had done almost nothing all day, and yet he felt exhausted. His hand shook as he scratched the name from his appointment book. Christ, if this kept up he’d have no business left.

  The police had packed it in for the night, but they’d be back tomorrow. Sergeant Ormside had made a point of telling him that. They’d have the road-block up again; stopping people; asking their endless questions.

  Foster rubbed his face with his hands. Ormside was as bad as that bloody chief inspector, in his own way. Always respectful, never hurried, but questions … There was no end to them. Seemingly innocuous questions, many of them—until you realized that you’d just contradicted something you’d said the day before, and it was too late to do anything about it.

  He knew Ormside was convinced he’d killed both Gray and Lisa. He could see it in the sergeant’s eyes every time he spoke to him; lurking there behind that bland expression; waiting for him to make that one, fatal mistake.

  Would it never end?

  He should go away. But where? And would the police let him?

  There’d been another call from Constance this morning. Threatening; abusive. He hated that woman. How she could be Lisa’s mother was beyond him.

  He’d hung up on her. Slammed the phone down, panicking as the thought occurred to him that the police might be listening and believe the things she was saying. Could they do that? Didn’t they have to have a warrant? But then, they might have grounds. If they thought that Lisa was still alive and might contact him, they could probably get one.

  He screamed in terror as glass exploded into the room. He cowered in the chair, arms and hands covering his head, as if expecting blows to rain down on him. It took him several seconds to realize what had happened, but he seemed frozen in that position. Dimly, he heard voices; young voices. Kids!

  He couldn’t hear what they were sayi
ng. He didn’t want to know. He just wanted them to go away; to leave him alone. It was too much.

  He leapt from the chair and ran to the door. It crashed against the wall as he flung it open and screamed obscenities into the night.

  But the only response was the roar of an engine and the squeal of tyres as a car roared off into the darkness.

  * * *

  IT WAS COLD. Eric Tyson shivered. And the floor was hard. He turned over and pulled the blankets around himself, but it made no difference. He frowned into the darkness, trying to remember what his father had said, and at last it came to him.

  ‘Put plenty of straw under you, Eric,’ he’d told him. ‘It’s not so much what’s on top; it’s what’s underneath that counts. You’ll be all right. It’s only for a while, Eric. I promise. And tomorrow I’ll bring the old paraffin heater up, then you’ll be warm enough. And I don’t want you going over there to the cottage again. Understand? You stay away from there.’

  The young man got up and pulled straw from the bale and spread it liberally on the hard-packed earth. He liked it up here in the old barn. This was his barn; his father had told him that when they built the new one closer to the house. He spent most of his time here when he wasn’t helping his father. But he’d never slept here before, and he didn’t understand why he had to sleep here now.

  He’d spilled his tea again. Ma had screamed at him again, but he couldn’t help it. He didn’t spill things when he was with his dad. Only in the kitchen where his mother was. But she always screamed at him. He couldn’t remember when she had not screamed at him.

  Perhaps it was because of the lady. His father had said it wasn’t, but Eric knew that people didn’t always say what they meant.

  He settled uneasily into the straw and pulled the blankets over himself. He must have done something very bad because he was being punished. Punished by his dad. A tear rolled down his cheek. He stuck his thumb in his mouth and began to rock gently back and forth.

  FIFTEEN

  Tuesday 9th April

  MOLLY FORSYTHE slumped back in her chair and stared at the screen. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. She’d tried every possible combination she could think of, but the answer was still the same. Nowhere in the system did they have anyone matching the description Olivia and Audrey Tregalles had given of the man who had spoken to Olivia. Nor had the name ‘Wendy’ produced any results.