In The Shadow of Evil

by Frank Smith

  They caught up with Paget at the end of the track. ‘Take a WPC with you when you go to see Mrs Jones,’ he told Tregalles. ‘And we’ll need her to make a formal identification of the body as soon as possible, so make sure that’s laid on for her.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Tregalles said as he ducked under the tape sealing off the crime scene. In other circumstances the words might have been delivered in a jocular manner, but the sergeant’s body language said otherwise as he walked up Manor Lane to his car. But if Paget noticed it, he gave no indication.

  Paget and Molly ducked under the tape as well, and were about to cross Manor Lane, when Molly noticed a man coming toward them. Head bent, he walked with the measured tread of a countryman. ‘That’s Thorsen,’ Paget said quietly. ‘He’s the man who found the major and Toni Halliday the other night. He lives just down the lane.’

  ‘’Morning, Mr Thorsen,’ he said as the man came up to them.

  Thorsen acknowledged the greeting with a nod. His deep-set eyes were watchful beneath his shaggy brows. ‘So what’s all this, then?’ he asked. ‘Police cars coming and going like they was on the motorway. I thought there must have been an accident, so I came up to see what was going on.’ He nodded toward the tape. ‘Thought you’d finished up at the barn?’

  ‘This is Detective Constable Forsythe,’ Paget said, ignoring the implied question, ‘and I’m afraid we have some bad news. Gwyneth Jones is dead, and we will be trying to trace her movements after she was seen last Friday night near the bottom of Manor Lane.’

  Thorsen didn’t actually recoil, but it was as if his whole frame had become stiff and wooden. The light faded from his eyes. ‘Like the other one?’ he asked gruffly. ‘In the barn?’

  Paget nodded. ‘I’m afraid so, yes.’

  The old man swallowed hard and suddenly there were tears in his eyes. ‘She was a good girl, was Gwyneth,’ he said. ‘Always cheerful, always had a word and waved when she went by on her bike.’ He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose, then cleared his throat noisily and spat into the long grass at his feet. ‘I hope the bugger swings for it,’ he said with feeling.

  ‘We don’t hang people these days,’ Paget reminded him.

  ‘More’s the pity!’ Thorsen growled.

  ‘You say Gwyneth always used to wave when she went by on her bike,’ Paget said. ‘You weren’t home when Sergeant Tregalles called round the other day to ask if you had seen Gwyneth go by last Friday night, but your neighbour, Mr Evans, said he saw her, but she didn’t wave. Were you home that night? Did you see her go by?’

  Thorsen lifted his cap and scratched his head. ‘Let’s see,’ he said slowly. ‘Last Friday. No, I didn’t. I took old Toby for a walk. He misses his walk of a night now the major’s gone.’

  ‘What time would that have been?’

  ‘About half seven, near enough. It was getting dark by the time I got back, say about a quarter past to half past eight. She’d have gone past by then.’

  ‘Did you see anyone on your walk?’

  The old man snorted. ‘Just a couple of kids having it off in the bushes at the top of the lane,’ he said. ‘Toby flushed them out.’

  ‘Do you know who they are?’

  ‘I didn’t get much of a look at the girl, but the boy looked sort of familiar.’

  ‘Can you describe him? I need to talk to anyone who was anywhere near here that night.’

  ‘Tallish, sort of skinny, a bit scruffy. I’d know him again if I saw him, but I don’t know what else to tell you.’

  ‘We have people who can help you with that,’ said Paget, ‘so I would like you to go with one of our men to work with our ID man. It shouldn’t take long, and you’ll be brought back home when you’re finished. Will you do that, Mr Thorsen? It could be important.’

  ‘I’ll have to stop and see to Toby first,’ Thorsen said, ‘but if you think it could help to find the bastard who killed young Gwyneth, then, yes, I’ll go.’

  TWENTY-TWO

  Mrs Lodge took the news of Gwyneth’s death extremely hard. White-faced, she sank into one of the high-backed kitchen chairs. ‘But why?’ she kept whispering hoarsely. ‘I don’t understand. Why would anyone want to kill Gwyneth?’

  But Paget wasn’t prepared to share that information with the housekeeper, and once he’d established that she couldn’t help, he was anxious to move on.

  Charles Bromley was not at home. ‘It’s one of his consulting days at the hospital,’ Mrs Lodge explained. ‘And Mrs Bromley is out as well. The vicar rang and said he needed to talk to her about the hymns and the order of service for the funeral for Miss Toni on Friday, so Mrs Etherton took her in her van because Mrs Bromley still hasn’t got her car back since it was wrecked last week. They’re stopping for lunch in town, but they should be back shortly after that.’

  Julian, she said, had gone to Birmingham to audition for a part in a play, but she expected him back in time for dinner. But Paul was in.

  ‘Do you happen to remember if Julian was here at the manor last Friday evening?’ Paget asked her.

  The housekeeper dabbed at her eyes. ‘He was here for dinner,’ she said, ‘but he left before everyone else was finished. He said he was meeting friends. I don’t know what time he got back – probably not till well on the next morning, knowing him. Didn’t get up till noon on Saturday, and left me with his bed to do in the afternoon. Lazy young beggar. He’s not a bit like his father.’

  They found Paul Bromley in the conservatory. Judging by its heavy, ornate ironwork construction and thick panes of glass, the conservatory was probably as old as the house itself. Braided rugs on the flagstone floor, and colourful, overstuffed cushions on the heavy furniture struggled to make the room look cheerful, but it was a losing battle. The September sun, partially blocked by massive trees that should have been pruned back years ago, tried valiantly to penetrate the moss-stained glass, but the result was a cold and cheerless room.

  Paul Bromley was standing at the far end of the room, head down, concentrating on what he was doing as his thumb moved swiftly back and forth across the keypad of his BlackBerry. He looked up, frowned his irritation at the intrusion, and continued texting.

  ‘Mr Bromley . . .?’ Paget said. Paul waved an impatient hand. ‘What is it now?’ he demanded irritably. ‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’

  ‘I’m afraid this can’t wait, sir, if you don’t mind, sir. This is a murder investigation.’

  ‘Of which I am well aware,’ Paul said with exaggerated weariness, ‘and I’ve already told you everything I can.’

  ‘I’m talking about the murder of Gwyneth Jones,’ Paget said, ‘and I would like to know where you were when she was killed.’

  ‘Gwyneth . . .?’ Paul frowned. ‘The maid? She’s dead? Is that what all the fuss is about in the lane?’

  With the image of Gwyneth Jones’s battered head still very much in the forefront of his mind, Paget barely managed to keep his temper in check. ‘If that’s what you call the discovery of the body of a young woman who has been brutally beaten to death, then yes, that is what all the fuss is about, Mr Bromley, and I would appreciate it if you would put that BlackBerry away and give us your full attention!’

  Paul gave the barest of apologetic shrugs. ‘I didn’t mean to be disrespectful,’ he said, ‘but I barely knew the girl, so I don’t see what it has to do with me.’

  ‘Then I’ll try to make it clear,’ Paget said icily. ‘You have lied to us consistently, leaving yourself open to a charge of wilfully obstructing the course of justice, and unless you sit down and answer my questions now, I am quite prepared to arrest you and take you in for questioning. Do you understand me, sir?’

  Paul eyed him warily, then spread his hands in a gesture of grudging submission and lowered himself gingerly onto the edge of a chair. ‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t answer your questions,’ he muttered defensively.

  ‘Good,’ Paget said, ‘so let’s begin with why you came back here last Friday evening, and I suggest you tell me
the truth this time.’

  Paul glanced at Molly, who had settled in a chair and taken out her notebook. ‘I did tell you the truth,’ he said truculently. ‘I heard about Toni on the car radio, and I—’

  ‘That doesn’t explain why,’ Paget broke in impatiently. ‘You told us earlier that you hardly knew Toni Halliday, yet you came dashing down here when you say you heard the news of her death and I keep asking myself why you would do that, Mr Bromley.’

  A frown of annoyance crossed Paul’s face. ‘I didn’t dash back, as you put it. I simply thought I should come. I knew Margaret would be terribly upset.’

  ‘I see. You also told us that you were on your way to see a client, a Mr Williams, in Oxford when you heard the news, but we’ve spoken to Mr Williams and that wasn’t true, was it, sir? So I want to know exactly where you were and what you were doing last Friday, and believe me, sir, we will be checking your story very thoroughly.’

  Paul shrugged. ‘All right, so I lied about Williams,’ he said airily, ‘but I was in Oxford. Well . . . not actually in Oxford, since we’re being so specific. I was staying at a small hotel just outside Oxford.’

  ‘The name of the hotel, if you don’t mind, sir?’ Molly broke in, pencil poised above her notebook.

  Paul shot her a venomous look. ‘The Friedland,’ he said tightly. ‘It’s owned by a German couple.’ He turned to appeal to Paget. ‘Really, Chief Inspector, is all this necessary? I mean it’s a bit delicate and I don’t see—’

  ‘More obstruction, sir?’ Paget asked quietly. ‘As I said, we can do this here or in Charter Lane. It’s your choice.’

  Paul pushed himself back in his chair and clasped his hands together. ‘Oh, what the hell!’ he muttered truculently. ‘I suppose you’ll find out one way or another in the end, so I might as well tell you myself. At least that way you’ll get it straight.’

  ‘Assuming you don’t try to lie to us again,’ Paget warned.

  Paul said he and a woman by the name of Marion Maynard, who just happened to be his employer’s wife, had planned to spend a weekend together at the Friedland Hotel, while her husband was abroad on a business trip. But when Paul heard about Toni Halliday’s death on the car radio, while on their way to Oxford late Friday afternoon, he said he’d left Mrs Maynard at the hotel and driven straight on to the manor.

  ‘Straight to the manor, Mr Bromley?’ Paget queried.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Then how do you account for the fact that you arrived at the manor around eleven o’clock, but say you drove straight here after hearing of Toni’s death while on your way to Oxford in the late afternoon?’

  Colour flooded into Paul’s face. ‘So we stopped off at the hotel for a bit before I came on here,’ he said sullenly. Molly suppressed an urge to giggle at the Paul’s unfortunate choice of words.

  ‘What happened to her? Mrs Maynard?’ Molly asked.

  ‘Eh?’ Paul looked puzzled.

  ‘What happened to Mrs Maynard? You said you left her there.’

  ‘Oh, I see what you mean. She stayed there overnight, then went back to London by train the next morning, because I was driving her car.’

  Molly couldn’t help herself. ‘This Mrs Maynard must be a very understanding woman,’ she said, then looked at Paget and shrugged an apology. ‘Sorry, sir,’ she said, ‘but I find Mr Bromley’s story somewhat bizarre, to say the least.’

  ‘As do I,’ Paget said drily. His voice hardened. ‘Do you know what I think, Mr Bromley? I think your actions sound like those of a very frightened man. The actions of a man who has just found out that Gwyneth Jones was in the barn when Toni Halliday met her death, and she might be able to identify the killer. I think someone from this house rang to tell you that, and you came back to silence her before she could tell us what she saw.’

  Paul moistened his lips and swallowed. ‘Look,’ he said earnestly, ‘you can’t really believe that I had anything to do with this girl’s death, or Toni’s either. I had no reason to kill Toni. I mean, why would I? And the same goes for the maid. I was telling you the truth when I said I fell asleep in the car around the time Toni was killed.’ He slid forward to the very edge of his chair as he tried to make his point. ‘Good God, man, don’t you think I’d come up with a better alibi than that if I had killed her?’

  Paget shrugged. ‘I don’t think you had a choice,’ he said bluntly. ‘You had to account for your absence while you were killing Toni Halliday, which, I suspect, was done on the spur of the moment, and that was the best you could do. Then, when it became necessary for you to kill Gwyneth, you—’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ Paul burst out. ‘I did not kill Toni. I could never have killed her, because she was my own flesh and blood. Toni wasn’t Halliday’s daughter. She was mine!’

  After being warned not to leave the area without talking to them first, Paul had been allowed to go. Paget stood by the windows looking out. Low grey clouds had drifted in, obscuring the sun. Leaves rustled softly in a fitful wind.

  ‘What do you think, Forsythe?’ he asked quietly. ‘Do you think he was telling the truth?’

  ‘When it comes to Paul Bromley, it’s hard to know what to believe,’ Molly replied, ‘but even he must realize by now that we’ll check everything he tells us. I do think he was telling the truth when he said he was Toni’s father. As for his assertion that he couldn’t have killed her because she was his own flesh and blood, I think Paul Bromley would do whatever he thought necessary to protect his own skin.’

  According to Paul, Margaret had gone out with Halliday several times before she and Paul got together. Halliday was ten years her senior, and she was flattered by the attentions of the famous man, and she was even more flattered when he asked her to marry him. But she loved Paul, so she turned Halliday down. But when Margaret announced that she was pregnant and suggested they get married, Paul admitted he got cold feet and turned her down.

  ‘It just wasn’t my thing,’ he explained, ‘so I was quite happy when she accepted Halliday’s offer. She didn’t tell Halliday, of course, but she was six weeks pregnant when she married him.

  ‘She was lucky in a way,’ he’d continued blithely, ‘because Halliday was about to set off on another of his adventures, so they were married right away. Margaret went with him, but she became ill and had to come home. She went full term, and Toni was born on schedule, but Halliday, who was still away, was told she’d been born prematurely.’

  ‘He never found out?’ It was Molly who had put the question.

  ‘Never,’ Paul said firmly. ‘Margaret went to a very private clinic. Private and discreet. I know, because I had money in those days and I arranged it. If he’d even suspected that Toni wasn’t his own child, God knows what Halliday would have done. But Toni grew up believing he was the greatest man who ever lived. She idolized him and he doted on her, at least he did when he was home, which wasn’t all that often. He’d arrive like a whirlwind; take Toni with him everywhere there was a photo op – Toni was very photogenic as a child, and he’d make a huge fuss of her when the cameras were rolling. Then he’d pop her back home and disappear into some remote part of the world again for months on end.’

  When pressed to account for his time the night Toni Halliday was killed, Paul said when Charles refused to lend him the money he so desperately needed, he’d decided to ask Margaret for it. ‘She’s got pots of it,’ he explained. ‘Halliday left her very well off indeed.’

  He went on to say he’d gone to Margaret’s room around eight o’clock to ask her for the money, but all she’d wanted to talk about was Toni. ‘Wouldn’t listen to me; said she was more concerned about what might happen to Toni, and she didn’t give a damn about what might happen to me. I’ll admit I became angry and said a few things I shouldn’t, but she completely lost her temper. She’d picked up a belt and lashed out at me. I ducked but not soon enough. The buckle caught the side of my head and it bled like hell.’

  He said he’d been plagued with a headac
he all day, and it was getting worse, so he’d gone down to his car to get some Paracetamol tablets from the glove box. He’d taken a couple of tablets, then sat there pressing a wad of Kleenex to his face to stop the bleeding, while he’d tried to think what to do next. ‘And I fell asleep,’ he ended. ‘It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘So tell me,’ Paget had said, ‘why, after virtually driving you out of her room, did Mrs Bromley suddenly go dashing out into the night to try to find you. What had you threatened to do?’

  ‘I didn’t intend to actually do it,’ Paul told him, ‘but I did tell Margaret that I would tell Toni she wasn’t a Halliday at all, but my daughter, if she didn’t come up with the money I needed. As I said, I wouldn’t have actually done it. Later, when I got back into the house, I realized that I’d been pretty rough on her, so I went along to her room to apologize and tell her that I hadn’t told Toni. And then I left. There was no point in staying around, so I decided to return to London then and there. It was a good time to travel; the roads were deserted, so I made it back in record time.’

  It was getting on for two o’clock by the time they reached the Cobbler’s Last, and the pub was almost deserted. They sat quietly in a corner by the window, each preoccupied with their own thoughts. Molly felt sure that Paget was still thinking about what he’d heard and seen that morning, and although she tried to do the same, her thoughts kept slipping back to her conversation with Starkie.

  Would David have told her about his ex-wife and daughter, she wondered? And couldn’t he have at least given her a quick phone call? Left a message on her voice mail? Starkie had said it had all been a bit of a rush, and she could understand that, but these days one had to be at airports so far ahead of flight time that there was always a lot of time to kill, so couldn’t he have called then?

  Or had she misread the signs? After all, they had only spent such a short time together it was silly to start thinking about a long-term relationship, but Molly had felt . . . well, comfortable with David Chen, and she’d hoped that David . . .