Stone Dead

by Frank Smith

  ‘Are you quite sure that Eric didn’t kill Lisa Remington?’ Paget asked quietly. ‘I’m told he was very fond of her, and he might have become enraged if he walked into the house and found her in bed with a strange man.’

  Tyson was shaking his head violently from side to side. ‘Eric’s never hurt anything,’ he insisted. ‘He was just trying to help. And he would never have killed her. No matter what else she might have been, she was always kind to Eric. He practically worshipped her.’

  ‘It could have been an accident,’ said Paget. ‘Eric kills rabbits with that shotgun of his. The man who was killed died from a shotgun blast.’

  ‘See? See?’ said Tyson as he scrambled to his feet. He stood there breathing heavily. ‘That’s what I mean. Because he can’t defend himself, you’ll try to say he did it, and he didn’t. I know he didn’t.’

  ‘How do you know, Mr Tyson?’ It was Tregalles who spoke.

  ‘Because,’ said the man, ‘Eric may not be able to speak, but I understand him, and he’s never lied. Even when he knew I’d be cross with him, he always showed me exactly what he’d done. He was never in that house that night, believe me. He was trying to help, that’s all.’

  Paget wanted to believe him. There was no doubt that Tyson was convinced of his son’s innocence. But no matter how much faith the man had in his son, the possibility remained that Eric could have killed Lisa Remington.

  Another thought crossed his mind. ‘When I first saw Eric at the cottage, he seemed to be afraid of Foster,’ he said. ‘Foster seemed surprised by that. Do you know why he would act that way, Mr Tyson?’

  Tyson nodded slowly. ‘Eric was never that keen on Foster,’ he said. ‘It was Miss Remington he liked. She was good to him. Patient, like, you know.’ Tyson paused, and when he continued, he seemed to be choosing his words carefully. ‘It could be that he thinks Foster killed the girl. I don’t know that, mind, but it could be. I do know he’s stayed clear of him since that day.’

  ‘Perhaps there’s a good reason for that,’ Tregalles said. ‘Perhaps he saw something. Can you find out?’

  Tyson shook his head. ‘It takes me all my time to understand the boy on simple things,’ he said. ‘Things like that … they’re too complicated. Sorry.’

  * * *

  FRANK PORTER followed Mike Freeman into the office and closed the door behind him. ‘The police are asking questions about the car,’ he said worriedly.

  Freeman hung up his coat and turned to face Porter. He looked tired. ‘So?’ he said. ‘Isn’t that their job?’

  Porter shook his head. ‘You don’t understand,’ he said. ‘They’ve been round to the neighbours, asking questions. The chap next door told me last night. Said he was sorry to hear we’d had a car stolen last month. He said the police were going round asking everyone if they’d seen anything suspicious. They know, Mike. They must! Why else would they come round asking questions like that right next door? What are we going to do, Mike?’

  ‘Do?’ said Freeman as he sat down. ‘We’re not going to do anything, Frank. Stop being such a bloody old woman. The police have nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’ Porter squeaked. ‘For Christ’s sake, Mike, they must have something to be sniffing round like that.’

  Freeman leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. ‘So the police have been round the neighbours. What is there for them to find out? You haven’t done anything stupid, have you, Frank?’

  Porter flushed. ‘Of course I haven’t done anything stupid,’ he shot back.

  ‘Then why are you worrying? Even if they find out, what can they do? A slap on the wrist for obstruction, but that’s about all. What else can they prove?’ His face darkened. ‘Unless someone talks out of turn, Frank.’

  Porter’s mouth opened but no sound came out. He didn’t like the way Mike Freeman was looking at him. He found his voice. ‘No one’s going to do that, Mike,’ he said hoarsely.

  Freeman continued to hold his gaze. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘So forget it.’ He drew a sheaf of papers toward him and began to read.

  Porter stared at him. ‘Forget it?’ It was almost a yelp. ‘For Christ’s sake, Mike, we…’

  Freeman sighed heavily. ‘I said forget it, Frank. Now get out of here. I’ve got work to do even if you haven’t.’

  * * *

  ‘MERRICK STAYED two nights at the Beechwood just outside Ludlow.’ DC York produced a photocopy of the entry in the hotel register. ‘March 11th and 12th. The receptionist remembers him well. She said he came in limping badly, and there was blood on his coat and trousers. She offered to ring the doctor, but he swore at her and told her to mind her own business. Said he’d been in an accident, but he didn’t need her help, then made straight for the bar.’

  Sergeant Ormside looked at the entries. ‘Sounds like Merrick, all right,’ he said. ‘Resting up, was he?’

  York nodded. ‘That’s what it looks like. The receptionist said he stayed in his room all the next day, just sending down for meals and drinks. She said he must have left during that night or very early the next morning, because he was gone when they took his tea up at seven. Left the room in a right old mess, though. Bath in a mess and towels all covered in blood.’

  ‘So he could have gone back the next night,’ said Ormside ruminatively. ‘Found Lisa in bed with Gray, and shot him with Foster’s gun. Lisa must have been wounded in the process, but managed to get away. Died later, if Tyson is to be believed.’

  Somebody, he thought, would have to talk to Merrick again; check out his story; look for anything that would connect him to Bracken Cottage on the 12th or later. He yawned and stretched. Time enough for that in the morning, he decided. At least Merrick was safely in custody in London. Thank God for that, at least.

  * * *

  BODY OF TOP MODEL FOUND? was the headline, but it was the picture of Lisa Remington that first caught Sean Merrick’s eye. Out on bail, he’d stopped in for a take-away and the paper was on the counter. He snatched it up and scanned the article, tearing the paper almost in half in his haste to turn to page two.

  ‘Hey! Watch it, mate,’ said the man behind the counter, but Merrick paid no attention. He read on. The article was short on detail, but there could be little doubt that the body was that of Lisa.

  Merrick crumpled the paper in his hands. Foster. He was to blame for everything. It was all his fault. Merrick clenched his fists. He’d pay, the bastard! By God, he’d pay!

  The man behind the counter reached over for the paper. ‘I said watch it,’ he said threateningly. ‘That paper…’

  Merrick grabbed his arm and pulled hard. ‘You shut your face unless you want this paper rammed down your bloody throat,’ he snarled. The people waiting on either side of him moved hastily away as he slammed the paper down. No one said a word as he shouldered his way to the door, fists balled and ready to smash anyone in his path.

  * * *

  ‘MOLLY THINKS she might have a suspect,’ Tregalles said. ‘She wants Olivia to have a look at him to see if it’s the same man.’

  Audrey’s hand flew to her mouth as if she was afraid of saying something she shouldn’t. She felt a coldness creeping through her even as her mind told her not to be so silly.

  ‘I don’t want her near him,’ she blurted. Her voice was high, on the verge of panic. ‘I’m sorry, John, but no. It could frighten her.’

  John Tregalles set aside the tea-towel and put his arms around his wife’s shoulders, but Audrey shook them away. ‘Stop it, John. My hands are all soapy. Can’t you see I’m doing the washing up?’ She knew she was being irrational, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself.

  Tregalles pulled her gently away from the sink and handed her a towel. ‘We can’t do anything until we are sure it’s the right man,’ he said gently. ‘And Olivia would be inside a car.’

  ‘But…’ Audrey gnawed at her lower lip, trying desperately to think of a reason for saying no. ‘She’s so young, John. I mean, you hear of this sort of thing coming b
ack years later.’

  ‘It’s not as if he’s done anything to frighten her,’ Tregalles pointed out. ‘In fact, Olivia hasn’t shown any sign that it’s bothered her a bit. Sitting in an unmarked car, watching for this man, would probably seem like a bit of a lark to her. Something to talk about at school.’

  ‘You want her to do it, don’t you?’ Audrey said. ‘You’ve already decided.’

  Tregalles shook his head. ‘You know better than that, love,’ he said.

  Audrey eyed him doubtfully. ‘Could I be there with her?’

  ‘Of course. It could be a long wait, though, for both of you.’

  ‘And he’d be arrested there and then? If it’s him.’

  Tregalles wished Audrey hadn’t asked that question. ‘It doesn’t work like that,’ he said. ‘You see, as far as we know, he hasn’t done anything wrong. He’s…’

  Audrey bristled. ‘He tried to take Olivia,’ she said, but Tregalles was shaking his head.

  ‘That’s just it, love. He didn’t do anything apart from walk with her and talk to her. Then he left. There’s no crime in that. Olivia wasn’t frightened. In fact it made so little impression on her that she only mentioned it casually later on.’

  ‘But he could have. He might have been going to take her when something frightened him off.’ Audrey’s voice was rising again. ‘John, the man could be dangerous. He ought to be arrested.’

  ‘Perhaps he should,’ Tregalles agreed, ‘but until we have more evidence, we can’t do anything. The thing is, if Olivia tells us that’s the right man, we can watch his every move, and when he does try it on, then we have him.’

  Audrey stared at him. ‘You mean you’d leave him loose so that he could do … whatever it is he does?’ Her eyes grew larger. ‘Are you saying he could still come after Olivia?’

  ‘He can still come after Olivia, as you put it, now,’ said Tregalles reasonably. ‘This way, at least we’d know who to watch.’

  Audrey turned back to the washing up. ‘I’ll have to think about it,’ she said, not looking at him. ‘I—I understand what you’re saying, and you’re probably right. It’s just…’ A tear ran down her nose and splashed in the water, and she wiped her cheek with the back of her hand.

  She didn’t know why she was crying.

  TWENTY

  Thursday 11th April

  PC MAYHEW loosened his tie and undid the top button of his shirt. He slipped his boots off and put his feet up on the desk. It was after midnight, and no one would be coming round to check at this hour. For that matter, he hadn’t seen why he should have to be here at all, stuck out in the back of beyond in the mobile unit, but Ormside had soon set him straight.

  ‘Every thief in the country knows this unit’s here,’ he’d said. ‘They’d have it stripped in no time if we left it out here unguarded. That’s if they didn’t tow the whole damned unit away during the night.’

  Still, he was on overtime, and he could use the money. Mayhew switched off the light above the desk, rested his head against the wall, and closed his eyes.

  * * *

  PETER FOSTER came out of a deep sleep to the sound of pounding on his door. The room was pitch dark. The noise disoriented him, and he couldn’t think where he was for a moment. As memory returned, he sat up in bed and switched on the bedside lamp. His heart was pounding hard, and he felt dizzy as he swung his legs out of bed.

  ‘All right! All right, I’m coming,’ he shouted as he stumbled down the stairs. ‘What’s wrong now?’

  ‘Police!’ bellowed a muffled voice, and Foster quailed. ‘Oh, God,’ he prayed. ‘What now?’

  The pounding began again.

  Foster unbolted the door and fumbled with the latch.

  The door smashed inward, catching his knee and foot as it knocked him backward into the wall, and a dark figure hurled itself inside. Before Foster had a chance to catch his breath, blows rained down on his head and he felt himself slipping to the floor. Hands gripped his throat, choking him, and he gasped for air. Instead, he sucked in the foul smell of beer and smoke and whisky. He struck out with his hands and connected with a face. His fingers found soft flesh and dug in hard, clawing, scratching …

  The dark figure cursed; the pressure eased, and Foster struck again. His fingers found an eye and he thrust with all his strength. The figure screamed, fell back against the door, and Foster scrambled crabwise across the floor. His hand came in contact with the doorstop, a heavy, cast-iron replica of a flat-iron used in summer to prop the door open. He grasped it by the handle, turned and swung it hard.

  The long, piercing scream brought Mayhew wide awake. He scrambled to his feet, searching in the darkness for his boots. He listened as he found the switch and turned on the light, but the sound was not repeated. Probably a fox or something like that, he tried to tell himself as he shoved his feet into his boots, but there had been something very human about that cry. Jesus Murphy! Ormside would have his balls on a plate if something had happened over at the cottage.

  His wavering torch picked out the black Volvo in the driveway, and he slowed his pace. Mayhew wasn’t one to walk blindly into an unknown situation. He inched cautiously toward the front door of the cottage and saw that it was open. He shone the torch inside.

  The body of a man lay on the floor, and beyond him sat Foster on the bottom step of the stairs. He was clad only in pyjamas. One sleeve had been torn away, leaving his arm bare from shoulder to elbow. His head was in his hands, and he was shaking so hard his teeth were chattering. Blood oozed from beneath his chin. It soaked the front of his pyjamas, and even as Mayhew watched, the dark and ugly stain grew larger.

  ‘Jesus Murphy!’

  Mayhew didn’t realize he’d spoken the words aloud until Foster looked up. ‘I think I’m going to…’ he began, but choked on the words and toppled forward on to the floor.

  * * *

  FOSTER WILL BE in hospital for several days at least,’ said Paget. ‘His windpipe is damaged; and an artery was nicked during the struggle. It wasn’t all that serious, but he did lose quite a lot of blood. Fortunately, Mayhew knew enough first aid to keep it from becoming worse prior to the ambulance arriving.

  ‘As for Merrick, he has a concussion, and he has a damaged eye. He’s lucky, though. If that flat-iron had done any more than clip the side of his head, he’d have been dead. As it is, the doctors say he should make a full recovery.’

  Christ! What a balls-up. Alcott looked grim as he squinted at Paget through a veil of smoke. ‘All right,’ he said wearily. ‘Let’s run through it all again. You say you can place Foster in Chester as late as nine o’clock on the evening of March 12th, and he paid his bill at the hotel at seven thirty the following morning.’

  ‘Right,’ said Paget. ‘He left the hotel and went directly to a meeting with people from British Rail and the advertising firm hired to do the brochures. We’ve spoken to the people who were there, and they all say that Foster was perfectly calm and focused on the job in hand. I can’t see Foster remaining that calm if he’d just killed Gray and was worried sick about where Lisa was and whether or not she was alive. Neither can I see him coming home that evening and going through an elaborate charade to cover up the killing if he’d done the killing himself. It makes no sense at all.’

  Alcott gave a grudging nod. ‘What about Merrick?’

  ‘He could have done it,’ Paget agreed. ‘He was close by. He could have returned to the house, found Gray there with Lisa, and gone berserk. Foster’s shotgun was there to hand, and I’m sure Lisa would have reloaded after shooting at him in case he decided to come back. But we have no evidence to connect him to the killing. Foster saw to that by his meddling. We’re working on it, but we’ve had no luck so far.’

  Alcott swung round to face the window, but he was oblivious to the view across the playing fields. ‘You say Foster’s a nonstarter,’ he said irritably, ‘and we can’t question Merrick. What the hell can we do?’

  ‘There are several things,’ said Paget mo
re confidently than he felt. He pulled his chair closer to Alcott’s desk. ‘Melrose has been busy trying to find out what happened to the company car that Gray used the day he went to meet Lisa. No one admits to seeing it again until it turned up at the weekend in the car-park behind Freeman Protronics, and I’ve always been curious about that. I think it’s possible that someone in the firm could be involved in all this, and I intend to do more digging there today.’

  Alcott swung back to face him. ‘What about Merrick?’ he demanded.

  ‘We haven’t forgotten Merrick,’ said Paget quietly.

  Alcott grunted. He’d hoped that Paget would have more than this. Hoped, but he knew better than to expect it. Alcott had been in Paget’s shoes, and he knew how hard it was. But Chief Superintendent Brock was breathing down his neck, and he felt so damned helpless.

  ‘All right,’ he sighed. ‘Get on with it, then. And for God’s sake let me know the minute you get anything positive. I could use a bit of good news.’

  Paget rose to his feet, pausing as he reached the door. ‘Lisa’s mother is coming down this morning to verify that the body of the girl we brought in yesterday is in fact her daughter,’ he said.

  Alcott grimaced as he pulled a pile of reports towards him. ‘I hope Starkie has been able to make her look better than when we saw her last,’ he said. ‘Anything else from him yet about how the girl died?’

  ‘No. Not till later on today.’

  Alcott nodded gloomily. ‘It’ll rain tonight,’ he said.

  Paget searched for the connection. ‘Sir?’

  Alcott flexed his arm. ‘Bloody elbow. Hurts like hell. Sure sign of rain.’

  * * *

  ‘I PICKED IT UP from your own notes, sir,’ said Melrose smugly. ‘You say in there that Porter never uses a company car. Yet I have a statement from a Miss Emma Lake—she lives in a flat on the top floor overlooking Porter’s driveway—in which she says she saw a company car parked there several days running last month. Porter’s house sits back a bit, and you can’t see much of it from the road because of high hedges and shrubs. But you look right down in there from her window. The only trouble is, she can’t remember the dates. She knows it was around the middle of the month, but she can’t swear to the dates.’