Stone Dead

by Frank Smith

  It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Porter had been nervous about something throughout the interview. Perhaps this was it.

  ‘How old is this woman?’ he asked abruptly. ‘And how’s her eyesight?’

  ‘She’d be about fifty, I’d say,’ said Melrose. ‘She’s a teacher. Lives alone, and her eyesight is good. I asked her to identify several cars and tell me what people were wearing down in the street, and she was spot on every time.’

  ‘Glasses?’

  Melrose felt pleased with himself. Paget wasn’t going to catch him out. ‘Wears them all the time, sir. Never without them.’ He waited, but Paget appeared to be deep in thought. Now, he thought, was as good a time as any to produce the prize.

  ‘There was one other thing,’ he said casually. ‘Miss Lake saw the car being driven away early one Sunday morning just as she was getting ready for church. Eight o’clock service. She said she hasn’t seen it since.’

  ‘And the driver? Was it Porter?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. She didn’t see who it was. She just saw the car going out into the street.’

  ‘Turning in which direction?’

  ‘Ahh!’ Melrose swallowed hard. ‘I—er, forgot to ask that particular question, sir,’ he said. Paget glanced up sharply. ‘I—um, I’ll ring her straightaway.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  FRANK PORTER was not in. ‘He’s been having these bilious attacks,’ Peggy Owen confided. ‘Keeps saying it’s just a touch of flu, but I think he’s got an ulcer. I keep telling him he should see a doctor, but will he?’ She rolled her eyes heavenward as if seeking strength. ‘Men!’ she said. ‘Can’t tell them anything.’

  Paget smiled. ‘What about Miss Freeman?’ he said. ‘Is she in?’

  ‘In the lab,’ said Mrs Owen. ‘Down the hall. Last door on the left. You’ll see her through the glass.’

  He found Janet Freeman staring intently at a VDU and making notes. He tapped on the glass and opened the door. ‘Can you spare me a couple of minutes?’ he asked her.

  Janet glanced at the time. She seemed reluctant to tear herself away from what she was doing. ‘I suppose a few minutes won’t hurt,’ she said grudgingly. She made a quick note, then swung round to face him. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Paget hesitated. ‘One of the possibilities we are considering,’ he told her, ‘is that David Gray was killed, not because of his liaison with Lisa Remington, but for something that could be work-related. Tell me, was he working on anything, shall we say, sensitive in any way?’

  Janet frowned. ‘Do you mean something like a government contract? Something like that?’

  ‘Not necessarily. It could be something of commercial value; a security system; something that might give a competitor an edge. I don’t really know, which is why I’m asking.’

  Janet shook her head. ‘No. I can’t think of anything like that,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’

  Paget looked disappointed. ‘Oh, well, it was just a thought,’ he said. ‘Thank you for your time, anyway.’ He turned to go, then turned back once more. ‘What about this new office in Bristol?’ he said. ‘Was Mr Gray involved in that in any way?’

  Janet’s face registered surprise, but it was quickly masked. ‘Where did you hear about that?’ she asked in a fierce whisper. ‘That information is strictly confidential. Besides, that idea was shelved months ago.’

  ‘Oh?’ Paget feigned surprise. ‘Your father mentioned it,’ he said. ‘In strictest confidence, of course, but I assumed that you would be aware of it.’ He allowed a frown to gather as if puzzled. ‘But from what he said, I got the impression that the move might be imminent. Which was why he left the office that day to discuss it with Frank Porter.’

  There was a note of caution in her voice as Janet asked, ‘What day?’

  ‘The day David Gray disappeared. Sorry, I thought you knew.’

  Janet smiled ruefully. ‘Dad has his fingers into so many things in the course of a day,’ she said. ‘It’s hard to keep up with him, and despite our business, communication is not one of his stronger points. In any case, I can’t see what that could have to do with David’s death.’

  Paget shrugged resignedly. ‘As I said, it was just a thought. Thanks again for your time.’

  Janet Freeman waited until she was sure Paget had gone before picking up the phone. ‘Where’s Dad?’ she demanded when Peggy Owen answered.

  ‘You’ve just missed him,’ said Peggy. ‘He’s gone to lunch with a client, and then he said he would be going straight on to Bradbury’s from there. He didn’t expect to be back this afternoon. You could probably get him on his pager.’

  ‘No. It’s not urgent, thank you, Peg. I’ll see him when I get home.’ She put the phone down. ‘Damn you, Dad,’ she said fiercely. ‘You might have told me.’

  * * *

  CONSTANCE REMINGTON shook with anger as the attendant barred her way. The room was cold. Ice cold. White tiles, cracked and dulled with age, lined the walls from floor to ceiling. The floor was concrete, painted green. Chipped and scarred. It smelled of Lysol. And to those who worked there every day, it smelled of death.

  ‘I’m sorry, madam,’ the young man said again, ‘but I must insist. These men must wait outside.’

  ‘These men are my friends,’ she snapped. ‘They’ve come all this way to support me when I—’ a catch came into her voice and her lip trembled ‘—see the body of my poor, dear daughter. You wouldn’t deny a mother…’

  ‘What is it, Graham?’ Dr Starkie had come up silently behind the trio facing the attendant, and they swung round to face him.

  Starkie was not a tall man, but he was impressive. And solid. He stood there like a rock, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his surgical coat—the clean one he used for visitors—and looked at each of them in turn.

  ‘I was just telling this young man…’ Constance Remington began, but Starkie interrupted her.

  ‘I heard what you told him,’ he said curtly. ‘Do your friends always go round carrying tape recorders and cameras, Mrs Remington?’

  The woman flushed. ‘I’ll have you know that…’

  But again she was interrupted. ‘I’ll have you know, Mrs Remington,’ Starkie said quietly, ‘that this is not some sort of peep-show, and reporters are not permitted in here under any circumstances.’ He turned to the two men. ‘Out,’ he said.

  The photographer looked to the reporter for direction. The man hesitated, then shrugged. ‘We’ll be outside,’ he told Constance Remington. ‘I said they wouldn’t let us in.’

  Grim-faced, Mrs Remington watched them go, then turned to Starkie. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I hope you’re satisfied. You and your petty rules have just cost me five thousand pounds. That’s what they promised to pay if they could get a shot of me identifying my poor Lisa’s body.’

  Starkie stared at her. He’d seen almost every possible kind of reaction from relatives and friends; some grieving; some not. But this was the most callous exhibition he had ever encountered.

  Constance Remington wrinkled her nose. ‘Well?’ she said. ‘Let’s get on with it. I have better things to do than stand here shivering in this stinking room all day. Where is she?’

  * * *

  ‘NOW, I hope you understand, Audrey. This isn’t the sort of identification that would stand up in court, but I would like to be able to tell my boss that Olivia wasn’t coached in any way. So, we’ll just sit here and watch the people in the street and see if Olivia recognizes anyone. All right?’

  ‘I understand, Molly. All right, Olivia?’

  ‘Yes, Mum.’

  They waited. For the first ten minutes, Olivia sat up straight, head pressed against the window. Going through her mind were all the things she would tell her friends at school next day. What’s it like inside a police car? she could hear them asking. Is she really a detective? Bet you were scared.

  Was not!

  A man on a bicycle rode past. A woman pushing a pram went by on the other side. Two women with shopping baskets ca
me out of the corner shop and crossed the road. Olivia watched them until they were out of sight.

  Forty minutes later, Olivia wriggled in her seat. She yawned. This was boring! She closed her eyes.

  ‘Keep watching, love,’ said Audrey.

  Olivia opened her eyes and sighed heavily. This wasn’t any fun at all. The window beside her had begun to mist up with her breath, and she drew a circle and put dots in for the eyes and nose. The mist began to clear before she could get the mouth in and she rubbed it all out.

  The front door of Number 38 opened and a man stepped out. He would be somewhere in his sixties; grey-haired, and he would probably have been considered handsome in his day. He stood for a moment on the step, then began walking down the road. Toward the school.

  Molly sat up straight, her eyes on Olivia through the mirror. Audrey sensed the change and drew in her breath. Her eyes went back and forth between the man across the street and Olivia.

  The girl fidgeted as she watched the man, then pressed her nose against the glass and tried to look down her nose to see how flat it was.

  Audrey could contain herself no longer. ‘What about that man, love?’ she asked, pointing. ‘Is he anything like?’

  Olivia looked surprised. ‘The man over there? Oh, no, Mum, he wasn’t as old as that.’ She leaned over the seat and put her chin on Molly’s shoulder. ‘Can we go home, now?’ she asked.

  * * *

  TREGALLES SPIED Grace Lovett in the corner as he eased his way through the throng at the bar. ‘Bit off your patch, aren’t you?’ he greeted her as he set his plate down on the table. He pointed to the chair beside her, over which she had draped her coat. ‘You waiting for a friend? Or can I sit here?’

  Grace hesitated for only a second, her eyes searching the room beyond. ‘No. I’m not expecting anyone,’ she said. She pulled her coat off the back of the chair and folded it behind her.

  Tregalles slid his plate on the table, along with his drink, and settled himself in. ‘Not having anything to eat?’ he asked, pointing to her drink, barely touched.

  ‘I was going to, but I decided I’m not all that hungry.’

  Tregalles took a long pull at his beer. ‘Good beer, that,’ he said as he dug into his pie. ‘So what are you doing here? More to do with what we’re working on? We could use a few clues.’

  Grace toyed with her glass. ‘No. I just happened to be over this way,’ she said, ‘and I thought I’d drop in. I’d never been here before your boss gave me lunch the other day, and I quite took to it.’ She glanced around as if idly curious. ‘He’s not with you, then?’

  Tregalles smothered a smile. ‘No,’ he said, straight-faced. ‘He’s off the beer and pies for a bit. Trying to lose a few pounds. You know how it is on this job.’

  ‘Oh.’ It was hard to read Grace’s expression. ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there?’ she said. ‘I mean, he isn’t…’ She searched for a word but failed to find one.

  ‘No. There’s nothing wrong,’ Tregalles assured her. ‘It’s just that he’s a bit touchy about his weight. Likes to keep trim. Spends his lunch-hour at the gym whenever he has the chance. He’s probably over there now. Pumping iron; that sort of thing. A devil for punishment is our DCI.’

  ‘Oh.’ Grace sounded surprised. And was that disappointment Tregalles detected? ‘I didn’t realize…’ She looked at her watch and pushed her drink aside. ‘I must be going,’ she said. Her voice had an edge to it as if something had displeased her.

  ‘Off to the gym, then, are you?’ Tregalles asked innocently.

  Colour rushed into Grace Lovett’s face as she gathered up her coat. ‘Very funny, Tregalles,’ she said witheringly. ‘Just because … Oh, never mind!’ She pushed past him and made her way out.

  Grinning broadly, Tregalles tucked into his pie.

  * * *

  DR STARKIE telephoned just after lunch. ‘If you’re looking for proof positive,’ he told Paget, ‘then you’re going to be disappointed. With what I have to work with, I can only speculate on what might have happened. I can tell you the probable cause of Lisa Remington’s death with some degree of certainty, but that’s all. It will all be there in my report, but that won’t get there until tomorrow at the earliest, and I thought you might like to know now.’

  ‘Appreciate it, Reg,’ Paget said. ‘What was the cause of death?’

  ‘In non-technical terms, brain haemorrhage caused by the entry of two pellets from a shotgun cartridge. Pellets identical to those I found in Gray. They entered through the left eye and travelled upward to lodge in the brain. Now, from here on it is pure speculation. The initial entry may or may not have rendered the girl unconscious. It’s possible that, apart from the external injury to the eye, she could function more or less normally. Or she could have been rendered unconscious immediately. There is no way I can tell for certain. But sooner or later, the pressure from the haemorrhage would take effect and she would become unconscious, and death would follow.’

  ‘Could she have run from the cottage and hidden herself somewhere after being shot?’ asked Paget.

  ‘It’s certainly possible,’ Starkie said, ‘but even the slightest bump might have been enough to kill her. But understand what I’m saying, Neil. This is all speculation. It wouldn’t be worth a damn in court.’

  ‘I understand,’ Paget told him. ‘And thanks again, Reg.’

  So Tyson could have been telling the truth when he said young Eric found Lisa beside the wall, Paget thought as he hung up. He was rather pleased about that. He’d never seen Tyson’s actions as anything but an attempt to protect his son, and he hoped nothing would turn up to change his mind.

  TWENTY-TWO

  DR CLARENCE NUGOLD was waiting for them when Paget and Tregalles arrived at the hospital. He was very young, or so it seemed to Paget. Tall, lanky, hair falling in his eyes, he looked more like a gangly teenager than a doctor. Yes, he agreed, he was on duty the night Mike Freeman was brought in, and he had brought along the file to jog his memory.

  ‘You understand, of course, that I cannot discuss Mr Freeman’s medical history with you unless I have his written permission,’ he said. ‘But if I can help in some other way…’

  Paget nodded. ‘We understand,’ he said. ‘But the information I’m looking for is more general. Could you tell us, for example, what time Mr Freeman was brought in?’

  Nugold consulted the file. ‘He was logged in at 2.29 a.m., March 13th,’ he said. ‘We knew he was on his way, so we were ready and waiting to bring him straight into Casualty the moment he arrived.’

  ‘You knew he was coming?’

  ‘That’s right. Miss Freeman phoned to tell us her father had had a heart attack, and she was bringing him in. She gave us his cardiologist’s name, and she kept up a running commentary on her father’s condition by car phone as she drove in. She also said she might need help getting her father out of the car when she arrived.’ Nugold sat back in his chair. ‘I’d say she is a very well-organized young woman who doesn’t lose her head too easily,’ he ended admiringly.

  ‘And what was Mr Freeman’s condition when you first saw him?’ Paget asked.

  ‘He was conscious,’ Nugold said with a smile. ‘Conscious enough to swear at us as we lifted him out of the car. And he told the other chap to bugger off when he tried to help.’

  ‘The other chap?’ Paget exchanged glances with Tregalles. ‘What other chap, Doctor?’

  Nugold shrugged. ‘I don’t know his name,’ he said. ‘I never saw him again after that.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  Nugold thought for a moment. ‘He was a big chap; heavy-set; dark hair; somewhere in his mid-thirties to forty, I’d guess.’ He shrugged. ‘Sorry, but my attention was on Freeman at the time.’

  ‘You’d recognize him again?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘He was with Miss Freeman, was he?’

  Nugold frowned. ‘No, he wasn’t, actually. He was in the second car. Red. Low, two-seater job. Don’t know
the make. I remember thinking it didn’t seem to match the man. Pulled in behind Miss Freeman’s car. I assumed he was a relative or friend.’

  ‘What kind of car was Miss Freeman driving?’ Tregalles asked.

  ‘Looked like one of their company cars,’ said Nugold. ‘It had the Freeman name on the door. Why? Is it important?’

  ‘Can’t really say at the moment,’ Paget said. ‘Tell me, other than being conscious enough to swear, how serious was Mr Freeman’s condition when he arrived? In general terms, of course.’

  Nugold flipped the file open. ‘He was in considerable pain,’ he said, ‘but that was more from the result of his fall than anything else. If he’d had a heart attack at all, it was very mild. Frankly, I suspect it had more to do with the drink than anything…’ He caught himself.

  ‘He had been drinking, then?’

  Nugold frowned, annoyed with himself for having said more than he’d intended. ‘In my opinion, yes,’ he said grudgingly, ‘but I’d appreciate it if you’d forget I said that.’

  Paget smiled. ‘You say Mr Freeman was in a lot of pain when he arrived?’

  Nugold nodded. ‘Primarily due to the pressure from the fractured rib and the severe bruising,’ he said. ‘God knows what he fell on. His chest looked as if it had been hammered. There were other bruises as well, but he probably got those when he fell down the stairs. Once we had the rib seen to, we observed him for the rest of the day, then sent him home. How is he doing, by the way?’

  ‘As far as I know, very well,’ said Paget. ‘He’s back at work and very active.’

  ‘Good. Best thing for him so long as he doesn’t overdo things.’

  * * *

  ‘THAT CAR had to be the one David Gray took to meet Lisa the day before,’ Tregalles said as the two men walked down the corridor. ‘The only other car was in Cheltenham for the week, so it had to be Gray’s. But what was Frank Porter doing there?’