by Frank Smith
Bike and rider were by now close to the top of the hill, and it looked to the sergeant as if Fletcher had his hand raised as he crested the rise. With two fingers extended, no doubt, he thought angrily. Tregalles looked back toward the house. Rose Ryan was standing at the door, waving madly, and the expression on her face was one of pure triumph.
Paget was reviewing the events of the day with Ormside when the call came through from Tregalles. The sergeant took the call. He listened for a moment, then said, ‘He’s here now, so you had better tell him yourself.’ He handed the phone to Paget, then sat down again.
There were things to be done; a manhunt to be set in motion, and neither he nor Paget would be leaving early tonight.
The clock on the church tower at the end of the village was striking the half hour as Grace made the turn toward home. She winced at the sound, not so much because of the dull, flat notes of the ancient chimes, but because it reminded her she was late once again. There wasn’t much point in trying to make up the time now, but still she felt she had to hurry as she went down the hill and up the other side to the house.
She almost clipped the post as she swung into the driveway and hit the brakes within inches of the garage door. She turned the engine off, dropped the keys into her handbag, and it was only then she realized that Neil’s car wasn’t there, and there were no lights on in the house.
Grace took a deep breath and put a hand to her chest as if to quell the turmoil within. She sat like that with her eyes closed for several minutes, willing herself to be calm. The sound of a car climbing the hill broke into her thoughts, and she wondered if it was Neil. The car went by and she let out a sigh of relief as she got out and entered the house.
The light on the answering machine was blinking. She pressed the button and listened to the message.
‘Sorry, Grace, but I’m afraid we’re going to be tied up here for a while. We’ve had a break on the Newman case, but . . . Well, let’s just say there are complications. Tell you about it when I get home. I tried to get you on your mobile but it was switched off. I think it’s time you changed the battery. Don’t bother about a meal; I’ll grab something to eat in town, so expect me when you see me. I should be home by ten or so. Love you, Grace. Bye for now.’
Grace sank into a chair and closed her eyes. Thank God for small mercies. She’d been wondering ever since she left town how she was going to explain to Neil why she was late again. She’d managed to avoid lying to him in the past, and she’d promised Charlie that she wouldn’t blame her absence on overtime, but if Neil should decide to ask a direct question, she didn’t know what she would say.
The truth? Oh, no. Right or wrong, she’d decided that wasn’t an option. She glanced at the calendar on the wall, She’d hoped to have everything cleared away long before now, but the situation was getting worse. In fact, tonight had been a disaster. And Perelli, who was a decent man, and had always treated her well, had been almost threatening when he’d rung her at work a couple of days ago. She put her hands to her head; she felt as if the walls were closing in around her, suffocating her.
If only she could sleep . . .
Thirteen
Thursday, March 20
It was an uncharacteristically subdued DS Tregalles who entered Paget’s office the following morning. He’d handed in his typed report, together with that of DC Lyons, late last night, and Paget had taken them home with him. Now, as he sat down to face the chief inspector across the desk, Tregalles braced himself for what was to come.
Paget set the report aside and leaned back in his chair. ‘There are discrepancies between your version of events and the version Lyons gave me,’ he said. ‘I take it you’ve read his report, Sergeant?’
‘I have, sir.’ It wasn’t often Tregalles called Paget ‘sir’. Usually it was the less formal ‘boss’, but he didn’t want to take any chances this morning. ‘It really wasn’t his fault that the shed was overlooked,’ he hurried on. ‘It was mine. Seeing the truck outside, I assumed that Fletcher was inside, and I told Lyons to watch the back door in case Fletcher tried to make a run for it when I went in the front. Lyons did exactly as he was told. It was only after we failed to find Fletcher in the house that there was any reference made to a shed.’
‘But Lyons was at the back of the house, and it should have occurred to him that the shed could be a hiding place, and yet he failed to mention it until later. He’s quite clear about that in his report. Do you disagree with that, Sergeant?’
‘No, sir, but it was still down to me, wasn’t it? I mean I was in charge, and I knew the lad was green; I should have given him better instructions. And he did identify the bike Fletcher was riding as a Harley 1200 Sportster. Seems cars and bikes are a bit of a hobby of his.’
But Paget wasn’t about to be sidetracked. ‘Better instructions such as . . .?’ he asked.
Tregalles shrugged. ‘I should have thought about outbuildings, at least,’ he said.
‘And so should he,’ Paget said firmly. ‘He may be green, but he saw the shed, yet failed to mention it when you opened the back door.’
‘Because I told him to check upstairs,’ Tregalles countered. ‘It was only after we were sure Fletcher wasn’t in the house that Lyons mentioned the shed, and I can’t really fault him for that, sir.’
‘But I can,’ said Paget sharply. ‘Otherwise, how is he going to learn? He failed to inform you immediately about the shed, and we are now engaged in a very costly manhunt for someone who may well be involved in a kidnapping or murder or both. At least Lyons recognizes that in his report, which is something in his favour, I suppose, but he will be disciplined, Sergeant.’
‘He did try to stop him, and got a black eye for his trouble,’ Tregalles reminded Paget.
But Paget wasn’t to be moved. ‘I have taken that into consideration,’ he said, ‘but the fact is Fletcher still got away, didn’t he?’ His tone softened as he said, ‘I’m recommending the loss of two days’ pay and a note on his record, which will be reviewed in six months. If his record is good at that time, the note will be expunged. Any objections?’
Tregalles shook his head. In fact he was relieved. If that and the bollocking Tregalles had given Lyons the night before didn’t do the trick there was no hope for the man. But in truth, anyone could have made the same mistake, and Tregalles mentally crossed his fingers as he asked, ‘What about me, sir?’
Paget eyed the sergeant thoughtfully. ‘We all make mistakes,’ he said, ‘and I don’t think there is anything I can do that will make you feel any worse about this than you do already, so consider yourself reprimanded, and let that be an end to it.’
Tregalles let out a long breath, then frowned. ‘Not that I’m not grateful,’ he said, ‘but what about Lyons? I mean if I’m—’
‘The reason I’m taking action against Lyons,’ Paget cut in, ‘is to make sure he understands early on in his career that he has to be alert at all times, and how costly a mistake such as he made can be. Not just in time and money, but to the community at large, because we may well have a killer on the loose due to his negligence. Now, we’ve spent enough time on this already, so send Lyons in on your way out.’
‘I spoke to Mr Skinner, the manager of RGS Removals,’ Ormside said in answer to Paget’s query later that morning, ‘and he assured me he would let us know if Fletcher returned there or if they heard from him – not that Fletcher’s likely to under the circumstances, but you never know. But we do have one bit of good news – well, more or less. Forensic found what we assume to be Fletcher’s prints all over the van they pulled out of the quarry the other day. At least they match those we took from the steering wheel of the Mazda and from his personal things at the cottage.’
Paget frowned. ‘How did they manage that?’
‘I asked the same question,’ Ormside said, ‘and they told me that the van is old and coated with oil and grime, and with the water being cold, some of the prints were still readable. And because a lot of the tools were wrapped
up and more or less protected, they were able to lift prints from those as well. There are some they can’t identify, but they’ve isolated Newman’s, and Green’s – seems like Bernie had a look at just about everything in the van while he was at it.’
‘Which gives us a solid link between Fletcher and Newman’s van, and that means we won’t have to rely solely on Green’s testimony that his brother-in-law was involved, if or when it comes to court. Anything else?’
‘Yes, there is,’ Ormside told him. ‘They’ve identified prints belonging to a Nicholas Slater, an Australian. Started out as a wrestler, then went on to do stunt work for film and television; been all over the world, but no one will touch him since he got into a fight and almost killed one of the crew during a shoot. He has a history of fighting, and he did time for that assault. Released three years ago, and there’s been nothing on him since. Last known address is Moorfield Road, Coventry, but that was two years ago, so there’s no telling where he might be now.’ Ormside handed Paget a faxed copy of the man’s form sheet, together with a picture of a heavy-set man with blond hair.
‘Could be one of the men the doctor saw getting out of a car outside Wisteria Cottage,’ Paget observed. ‘Pull half-a-dozen photographs of people of similar build, and do the same with Fletcher’s picture, and have them shown to the doctor in Lyddingham. And ask Emma Baker if she has seen Slater before, possibly in the company of Fletcher.
‘It’s probably a waste of time,’ he continued, ‘but get on to Coventry and ask them to check out that address. I doubt if Slater still lives there, but you never know your luck. And make sure you tell them that, whatever they find, we don’t want him alerted.’
Tregalles spent much of the rest of the day working with the team searching Fletcher’s cottage for anything that might suggest where the man had gone, but they came up empty handed. Rose Ryan was questioned at length, but insisted that, as far as she was concerned, Fletcher worked for RGS, and he wasn’t involved in anything beyond that. She said she’d never heard of Newman or Doyle; she knew nothing about a van, and she had no idea where Fletcher might be now.
But one thing Tregalles discovered while going through bills and papers was that Fletcher owned a mobile phone, and mobile phones could be traced. He hadn’t said anything to alert Rose, but he had taken note of the number and passed the information on. If Fletcher used his phone, or even switched it on, the area he was in could be identified. It might not tell them exactly where he was, but it would certainly narrow the field.
Bernie Green was questioned again, and he, too, claimed he had no idea where Fletcher might be. ‘I mean it isn’t as if we’re close or anything. He may be my brother-in-law, but I can’t help that, can I? It’s not as if we’re mates? Besides, he never tells me anything when I do see him, so, sorry, but I can’t help you.’
The Red Lion in Whitcott Lacey was packed. Emma Baker had been rushed off her feet all evening, and she would be glad when it was over. ‘Same again, love,’ a small man in a tweed cap said, pushing his empty glass across the counter. ‘Banks Bitter,’ he elaborated as she raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘And an Artist’s Special for the wife.’
Emma nodded. She pulled the pint, then set about mixing the cocktail. Whisky, lemon juice, sherry and grenadine. She did it mechanically, her thoughts taken up with trying to remember where she had seen the man in the far corner before. He was talking to Roy Skinner. She didn’t think they had come in together, but they were chatting away as if they knew each other quite well.
Was he the same man who was there the night Mickey Doyle had taken off in such a hurry? Emma wished she could be sure. He certainly wasn’t the man in the suit whom Olive Kershaw had described to the detectives, and yet the thought persisted that there was a connection. Someone had ordered a whisky and taken it over to Doyle. Could it be the man in the corner?
But even if he was the same man, she told herself as she took Tweedy Cap’s money and rang it into the till, there was no reason to believe that there was any connection between him and the events that followed. She saw so many different people in the pub every evening that they became blurred in her memory, but if there was even the slightest chance that she was right, it would be worth following up.
She tried not to look at the man, but her eyes were drawn to him again and again. Impossible to judge his age with any degree of accuracy; he could have been anywhere from thirty to forty. Lean, compact body, clean, well-defined features, dark hair that could do with a trim, but it looked good on him all the same. Casually but neatly dressed, clean-shaven, and a smooth, almost olive-coloured skin that made Emma wonder if there could be some Italian or possibly Greek blood there. He was a very good-looking man, attractive and quietly spoken, and yet there was something disturbing about him – a feeling she couldn’t quite define.
Emma sighed. She was probably being silly, she told herself, but silly or not, she couldn’t let it rest. She had to find out more about him. And if nothing came of it, at least she’d know she’d tried to help the police in their search for Mark. Emma made up her mind. Like most non-locals, the man had probably come by car. So, if she nipped out the back door when he left, she could take down the make and registration of his car, and pass the information to Molly Forsythe. Molly would know what to do. She’d find out who the man was.
Fourteen
Friday, March 21
Tregalles attended the morning briefing, but his thoughts were on the conversation he’d had with Audrey the night before.
‘There’s nothing to be gained by worrying yourself silly over what happened, now is there?’ Audrey had said as they got ready for bed. ‘I told you Mr Paget would understand. And you said yourself that he took it very well.
‘I mean it could have happened to anybody, couldn’t it? You said yourself that the Lyons boy is green as grass, and you can’t be expected to think of everything, now can you? And Mr Paget recognized that. The lad lost a bit of pay, which will sharpen him up a bit, and you said yourself that you didn’t get so much as a slap on the wrist, so stop stewing over it.’
‘But I’m still responsible for what happened,’ Tregalles insisted as he slid into bed. ‘I know it and Paget knows it, and while it might not appear on my record, it will always be there in the back of his mind.’
‘Now you are talking rubbish!’ his wife told him. ‘I’m sure as far as Mr Paget is concerned, it’s all over and done with, so stop getting your knickers in a knot and forget it. I’m sure he has.’
But Tregalles wasn’t so sure. He kept remembering what Paget had said about Lyons being responsible for causing a costly manhunt and possibly putting anyone who tried to stop him at risk. Paget hadn’t come right out with it – he didn’t have to, because Tregalles was all too well aware that he was equally responsible, and it had taken him a long time to get to sleep.
‘You still with us, Sergeant?’ asked Paget sharply.
Tregalles could feel the colour rising in his face as he said, ‘Sorry, boss. I . . . aahh was just wondering if there is any way we can get Fletcher to use his mobile without him becoming suspicious.’
‘Too risky,’ Paget said dismissively. He turned to Ormside. ‘Did we get anything on this man Slater?’
‘Emma Baker said she recognized him from the picture Forsythe showed her yesterday. She said he used to come in every so often with Fletcher, but she hasn’t seen him lately. Forsythe also checked with Dr Chandler, but he said again that that he never saw the faces of the men outside Wisteria Cottage.
‘But speaking of Emma Baker,’ the sergeant continued, ‘Forsythe had a call from her first thing this morning to tell her about a man who came into the Red Lion last night. She says she isn’t completely sure, but she thinks he might have been there the night Mickey Doyle took off in such a hurry. Anyway, she took down the number of the car he was driving, and asked Forsythe to check it out.’ The sergeant shook his grizzled head. ‘Got to give her top marks for trying,’ he conceded, ‘but personally I think she�
��s clutching at straws.’
Paget nodded. ‘I suspect you’re right,’ he said. ‘On the other hand, we have so little to go on, we can’t afford to overlook anything, so have it checked out anyway.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Ormside told him, ‘but things are stretched pretty thin right now. I’ve got two people off sick; four people tied up on the rash of car thefts we’ve had this month, and two more on surveillance at the school on Broadview road, where it’s been reported that a man in a van has been asking children to help him find a lost dog.’
He was about to go on, but Paget cut him off with a wave of his hand. Ormside wasn’t one to complain about his workload unless there was a very good reason, so the chief inspector didn’t need to be convinced. ‘Tregalles is free,’ he said. ‘He can fill in for you at least until we get some sort of break in the Newman case.’
He looked at his watch, his mind already on other things. ‘Now, I must be off,’ he said as he began to move away. ‘I’ll be either in Mr Alcott’s office or over at New Street. More meetings,’ he added with a grimace, ‘but you can get me on my mobile if there’s anything to report.’
Ormside scribbled a note on the scratch pad in front of him, then put the phone down and called across to Tregalles, who had just got off the phone himself.
‘Gerry Fletcher switched his phone on and made a call,’ he said, ‘so now we know the area he was in when he made it. Funny thing, though, he didn’t call home or his work as you might expect; he called some farmer who lives out in the hills between the Lyddingham and Ludlow roads.’
‘Where was he calling from?’
‘Great Malvern area, so he didn’t go very far from home. The police there have been alerted to watch for him.’
‘I don’t suppose we know if he’s stationary or on the move?’
‘We won’t know that until he switches on and makes another call,’ Ormside pointed out, ‘but it would be interesting to know why he called that number. It belongs to an Evan Roper.’