by Frank Smith
The sergeant drew in a long breath and let it out again. ‘I don’t know what’s going on out there,’ he said slowly, ‘but I have the feeling that somebody is going to a lot of trouble to keep it that way.’
Paget nodded. ‘I think you’re right,’ he said, ‘and if that is the case, then it doesn’t look good for either Newman or Doyle.’ He glanced at the time, hesitated, then shook his head.
‘I’d like to go out there with you this morning, but I have to be in New Street in half an hour. It’s budget time again, and since everyone is clamouring for a bigger share of the pie, I can’t afford not to be there. Unfortunately, I will probably be tied up for a good part of the time during the next couple of weeks, so you will have to take the lead on this, Tregalles. And the sooner you and Forsythe get back out there and start putting a bit of pressure on Doyle’s neighbours in the caravan park, and anyone else who admits to knowing him, the better.’
Tregalles rose to his feet. ‘On my way,’ he said as he made for the door. ‘All right if I call your mobile if necessary while you’re in your meetings over there?’
‘Feel free,’ Paget told him as he stood up and began stuffing folders in his briefcase. ‘But do try to make it good news. Mr Brock doesn’t like any other kind.’
Paget felt completely drained by the time the meeting broke up at five o’clock. He wasn’t fond of meetings at the best of times, but a meeting chaired by Chief Superintendent Morgan Brock was something else again. With his accounting background, Morgan Brock reduced everything to numbers, ratios and percentages, all backed up by graphs and pie charts that virtually ignored the human factor and the complex nature of the job.
‘You’re not exactly endearing yourself to the man,’ Alcott had warned him yet again at lunchtime. ‘His mind is made up and you’re not going to shift him, so let it be. We’ll just have to find a way to work within the parameters he sets.’
But Paget always felt he had to try, and he had managed – finally – to wring one concession out of the chief superintendent. Brock had grudgingly accepted Paget’s argument that a total ban on overtime could, under certain circumstances, lead to unwelcome criticism from the public and the press.
It was the press that did it, of course. If there was one thing Brock did not like more than loosening the purse strings, it was bad publicity.
Paget was tempted to go straight home, but with the prospect of several more days of meetings ahead of him, he decided to go back to the office and clear as much of the paperwork on his desk as possible before calling it a day.
There were a number of messages awaiting him when he returned to Charter Lane. He shuffled them into some sort of order and dealt with them swiftly, but the one he didn’t recognize he left till last.
Vincent Perelli? He couldn’t think of anyone he knew by that name, but apparently the man had said the matter was urgent, and had asked that Paget return his call asap.
He punched in the number and settled back in his chair. The phone at the other end was picked up on the first ring. ‘Perelli,’ a man’s voice said cryptically.
As soon as Paget identified himself, the man broke in with an effusive, ‘Ah, Mr Paget, thank you so much for returning my call so promptly. I am so sorry to trouble you at your work, but it is very important that I talk with you about Miss Lovett.’
Grace? What did she have to do with someone by the name of Perelli?
Of course! The penny dropped. Perelli was the owner of Grace’s flat. He’d only met the man once, and then only briefly. Short neck, chest like a barrel, tightly curled grey hair. ‘What about Miss Lovett?’ he asked cautiously.
‘It’s about the lease on the flat,’ the man said. ‘You see—’
‘Shouldn’t you be talking to Miss Lovett about that?’ Paget cut in sharply.
‘But I have, Mr Paget. Several times, but it is no good. She will not listen to me, and it is a good deal, believe me, sir.’
Paget was tempted to tell Perelli that he didn’t want to get involved in what he regarded as strictly Grace’s business, but he was intrigued. ‘What, exactly are you talking about, Mr Perelli?’
‘The lease on the flat. I have tried to tell her she would never get such an offer from anyone else. I am prepared to pay her a reasonable price if she will let it go, but she says no. I ask her if she intends to move back, and she tells me no, but she still won’t let me have it back. I don’t understand. But I thought if I spoke to you, perhaps you would be good enough to try to persuade her . . .?’
Paget sensed a hopeful shrug at the other end of the line.
‘Let me be sure I understand this,’ he said. ‘Are you saying you have offered to pay Miss Lovett to break the lease and return the flat to you?’
‘Yes, yes, of course that is what I am saying, and I assure you, she will never get another offer like this.’
‘I see.’ He didn’t exactly, but he was beginning to. Under the terms of the existing lease, there was a penalty that would have to be paid by Grace if she wished to terminate the lease ahead of time. Now Perelli was offering to pay her to break it.
But the thought that pushed everything else into the background, and sent a chill into the very marrow of his bones, was that Grace had never said a word about it to him.
‘I take it you have someone who wants the flat and is prepared to pay a higher rent than Miss Lovett is paying?’ he said.
‘That is true, Mr Paget. That is true, but if Miss Lovett will no longer be living there, I do not understand why she will not let me have it back. I have offered her good money. If you would just talk to her, please, Mr Paget, I would be most grateful.’
‘When did you last speak to her yourself?’
‘Yesterday, last week, the week before, but she keep saying, “Not now, Mr Perelli. Not now.” So I say, “When, Miss Lovett?” but she just shakes her head, and gives no reason. She won’t tell me why. So, I ask for your help, sir. She will listen to you.’
‘What makes you think she will listen to me?’ asked Paget neutrally. ‘This matter is really none of my affair, and I’m not at all sure that I should become involved. What Miss Lovett does is her own business.’
‘But your business as well, now that she is living with you in your house. Is that not so, Mr Paget?’
‘I think you are taking a great deal for granted, Mr Perelli,’ he said stiffly, ‘and I’m afraid I cannot help you. You and Miss Lovett will have to work this out between you. I don’t want anything to do with it. Sorry, but that’s the way it is, Mr Perelli.’
Paget hung up the phone, sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. What was going on? he wondered. Why was Grace being so stubborn about letting the flat go? She certainly wasn’t keeping it for the fond memories it held, not after what had happened to her there. So why wouldn’t she let it go, especially when Perelli wanted it so badly that he was willing to pay her to break the lease? And he couldn’t believe that she was holding out for a better offer. That wasn’t like Grace at all.
Once again the fear of losing her took hold. It seemed clear to him now that Grace was clinging to the flat as a means of escape if things didn’t work out between them. She said she loved him, and he believed her, but perhaps she was not quite as sure as he was about a long-term commitment. His first impulse was to tell her about Perelli’s call, to ask Grace point-blank why she didn’t want to let the flat go. But caution raised its head, and he realized he wasn’t yet prepared to take the risk. He hoped and prayed that she would stay. If he had his way they would spend the rest of their life together – but as long as there might be some doubt in Grace’s mind about their future together, he was not going to be the one to bring it out into the open.
Grace got home more or less on time that evening. More or less because neither of them could ever be sure when they would finish work each day, so they considered themselves to be ‘on time’ if they arrived home within an hour of each other. Arriving some fifteen minutes after him, Grace kissed him briefly, then stepped
back to hold him at arm’s length and eye him critically. ‘You look tired,’ she said. ‘You said this morning you weren’t looking forward to a day with Mr Brock. Did you make any headway at all?’
‘About that much,’ he said, holding thumb and forefinger about a millimetre apart.
‘And you’re hungry,’ she said. ‘So, enough of this dilly-dallying; I’ll start dinner right away.’
‘Better still, why don’t we go down to the village and have dinner at the White Hart? It isn’t the fanciest place around, but the food’s good. I took a chance on your not being late tonight and booked.’
Grace hugged him. ‘Oh, you lovely man,’ she said. ‘I’m starving myself, so just give me time to tidy myself up . . .’
‘You have twenty minutes,’ Paget called after her as she made for the stairs.
Paget turned away as Grace ran up the stairs, his thoughts in turmoil. The way she had greeted him, her concern for his well-being, the way she would come into his arms each time she came home told him more than words that she really did love him. But still hovering like an ominous cloud in the back of his mind was the call he’d had that afternoon from Vincent Perelli.
The small dining room was full, and the lively background chatter coming through from the bar gave the place something of a festive air. ‘I like this place,’ Grace said as they settled in their seats. ‘And the nicest part about it is there’s no washing up to do afterwards. We should do this more often.’
‘Which reminds me,’ said Paget, ‘Tregalles was telling me that the Red Lion at Whitcott Lacey serves very good food. Both he and Molly say it’s just like stepping back in time. Tregalles is even talking about taking Audrey out there for a meal, so if that turns out well, perhaps we could take a run out there one evening.’
‘Sounds great,’ Grace told him, but mentally made a note to phone the pub and check their bill of fare before agreeing to go out there for dinner. Tregalles might well be right about the food, but on the other hand, his idea of a good meal was a hot meat pie or a Gloucester sausage and chips.
A young waitress appeared at Paget’s elbow, and they ordered drinks. ‘The usual sherry?’ Paget asked Grace. She thought for a moment, then shook her head. ‘I think I’ll have a lager for a change,’ she said.
He nodded to the waitress. ‘And I’ll have a whisky,’ he said.
‘Water on the side?’ she enquired.
‘Please.’
‘Whisky? It must have been a hard day,’ Grace observed when the girl had gone.
‘It was,’ he admitted. ‘And we have more of the same tomorrow, I’m afraid.’
Grace smiled sympathetically as she picked up the menu. ‘Try to forget about Mr Brock,’ she said soothingly. ‘Don’t let him spoil your dinner.’
He picked up his own menu and pretended to study it, but his thoughts had nothing to do with Brock. Difficult as the man was, at least Paget knew what the issues were when dealing with the chief superintendent. But Grace was another matter. He had booked a table here tonight because he’d thought that once they’d had dinner and were relaxing over drinks, he might broach the subject of the flat; perhaps even mention Perelli’s call this afternoon.
But looking at her now, head bent, hair gleaming softly beneath the lights, his courage failed him. What if his fears were true, and Grace was keeping her options open? What if he forced her into telling him that she wasn’t sure that she could stay? He didn’t want to lose her. What if . . .?
‘Oh, look, Neil,’ she said, breaking into his thoughts. ‘The special for tonight is lasagne. You like Italian, so why don’t you have that? I wouldn’t mind some of that myself, but I don’t want anything too heavy, so perhaps I’d better have the chicken.’
Italian. Perelli! He took a deep breath.
‘Neil . . .?’ Grace raised an enquiring eyebrow.
‘Chicken,’ he said, then added hastily, ‘I think you’re right; lasagne would be a bit heavy, so I’ll have the chicken as well.’
Grace reached over and patted his hand. ‘Good choice,’ she said approvingly.
And appropriate, given his state of mind, he thought as he set the menu aside.
Eight
Friday, March 14
Paget went in early the following morning to try to get some work done before going over to New Street, but Tregalles was there ahead of him. ‘Not that I’ve got a hell of a lot to report,’ he admitted, ‘but I can give you what we have so far.’
He sat down to face Paget across the desk as the chief inspector settled into his own chair.
‘Mary Turnbull seems to be about the only one Doyle talked to in the caravan park,’ the sergeant said, ‘but even she couldn’t tell me much about the man himself. I spoke to her again yesterday, and she said Doyle often talked about his work and the people he was working for, but she couldn’t tell me anything about what he’d been working on recently. She did think it a bit strange, because he was going off to work early each morning and coming home late at night, and he seemed to be quite excited about it, but he wouldn’t tell her anything about it. The only thing he did say was that the money was good – very good, she said – so she thought the reason he was keeping shtum about the job was because it was something he was doing for someone on the sly, and he didn’t want anyone to get wind of it.’
‘Did she say how long he’d been on this job?’ Paget asked.
‘About a couple of weeks. But she gained the impression that he thought it might turn into something bigger, so she was surprised when he suddenly stopped going to work last week. In fact she said he hardly left his caravan the last few days he was there.
‘Which might be because of the incident in the pub when he was seen to be talking to Newman,’ Tregalles concluded. ‘It was a warning he took seriously – seriously enough to lie low for a while.’
‘But not low enough, apparently,’ said Paget. ‘But why didn’t this woman tell you all this before?’
‘Just never occurred to her that it had any bearing, I suppose.’
‘Anything else?’ asked Paget as he began sorting through the papers on his desk.
‘All but two of the caravan owners have been covered, as well as most of the people in the village, but no one could tell us anything. It seems that Doyle worked strictly for cash. He would never take a cheque; he had no use for cash cards or credit cards, or anything that might leave a paper trail. In fact, even Revenue & Customs have no record of him, which means he’s never paid income tax, at least not under the name of Doyle. Forsythe is out again this morning to talk to some of the people he’s worked for in the past, and I’m going back out later as well, but I doubt if we’ll do any better than we did yesterday.’
‘And nothing new on Newman, I take it?’
‘We tracked down his parents and Ormside talked to Newman’s father. Not that he was a fat lot of help, because Len said he didn’t seem to care one way or the other whether his son was missing or not.’
There had been nothing in Mark Newman’s room to give them a clue to where his parents lived, but, knowing the boy’s birth date, and assuming Emma Baker was right about his parents living in either Plymouth or Portsmouth, Ormside had tracked them down in Plymouth, and spoken to Newman’s father on the phone.
‘He said he hadn’t seen his son for more than a year,’ Tregalles continued, ‘nor had he heard from him. Seems Newman senior wanted his son to follow him in the family restaurant business, but Mark wasn’t having any. He was determined to be a journalist, so they parted company. Len said the man sounded pretty bitter, but he did finally agree to call us if he heard from Mark.
‘Emma Baker has been watching the post in case anything comes addressed to Newman, but there’s been nothing so far. She’s also talked to everyone she can think of herself, but she’s had no better luck than we’ve had.’
‘Anything from the university?’ Emma Baker had told Paget that Newman had been planning to go back to university in September. ‘Derby, I think,’ she’d said
. ‘At least that’s where he took his first year, so I assume he would be going back there again.’
Again, Tregalles shook his head. ‘One of Len’s people is working on it,’ he said. ‘And just in case there is any truth to what one of the men told Mary about Doyle going off to Ireland, Len has people checking on the trains and the ferries, but they’ve had no luck so far. Can’t say I’m surprised; I think the answer lies closer to home.
‘So,’ he said with a sigh of resignation as he got to his feet, ‘I’ll go back out there, and let you know if there is anything to report.’ He paused at the door. ‘Anyway, apart from all that, how’s the inquisition going in New Street? Getting anywhere with our beloved leader, are you? More men? Shorter work week? Longer holidays, maybe?’
‘Get out of here before I send you over in my place,’ Paget growled. ‘And show a little respect. It’s Chief Superintendent Brock to you, Sergeant.’
Tregalles shrugged an apology. ‘Sorry, boss,’ he said humbly, ‘but I thought I was showing a little respect – as little as . . . OK, OK, I’m gone,’ he said as he made for the door.
Friday afternoon, school was over and they had the whole weekend before them. They weren’t supposed to be there, of course, but nine and eleven-year-old boys have always been inclined to go where they were not supposed to be. To be fair to Jimmy Greenwood and his best mate, Sean Calloway, they were well aware of the dangers – if not of the terrain itself, at least of the amount of trouble they’d be in if they were found out – and both exercised considerable caution in their descent down the crumbling sides of the old quarry to the water’s edge.
‘See,’ said Jimmy, pointing to a half-submerged oil drum and several broken boards. ‘Told you. Somebody’s been down and smashed our raft. Dunno what happened to the other barrel. Must have sunk, and that one doesn’t look as if it’s going to be much good either.’
Sean, the elder of the two, squatted down beside the water and scooped up a handful of stones. ‘Dunno how,’ he said thoughtfully as he threw a stone at the remaining oil drum. ‘It would take a lot to bust ’em up like that. Could’ve been that mob from the Flats, I s’pose,’ he said, referring to a gang of young thugs who made occasional raids into Sean and Jimmy’s territory to steal bikes or kick out the spokes of those that were locked and chained. He threw two more stones and was rewarded with a satisfying clang as he scored a direct hit with the last one. ‘Can’t think who else would do it, can you?’