by Frank Smith
‘So that’s what Kendrick was telling me when he mentioned Joyride,’ said Paget. ‘He told me that young Pollock said he found the car behind Parkside Place, that block of flats facing Victoria Park, but Doctor Bryant said it was stolen from her driveway on Falcon Ridge. That’s right, isn’t it, Sam? You must have seen the report.’
Broughton nodded. ‘That’s right. Sometime after eight o’clock last night. And now you come to mention it, I can’t see it being Piggy. I’ve never known him to go any further afield than King’s Road and the station for a car. I doubt if he’s ever been up there to Falcon Ridge, so either Kendrick was having you on, or someone else stole it in the first place and Piggy picked it up later.’
‘I don’t think Kendrick was lying,’ said Paget. ‘He’d been sedated, but he seemed lucid enough. And I find it hard to believe there were two separate thefts, which leaves me wondering …’
‘If Doctor Bryant was telling the truth about where it was taken from?’ Broughton finished for him. ‘Do you want Piggy brought in?’ The sergeant made to turn and go back up the steps, but Paget stopped him. ‘Thanks just the same, Sam,’ he said, ‘but your shift is over, so go home and give those knees a rest.’
He was toying with the idea of leaving Sammy Pollock until the following day, but when he spotted one of the junior DCs trying to make himself invisible behind a police car while he enjoyed a smoke, Paget changed his mind. ‘Cruickshank!’ he called loudly. ‘Just the man. I have a job for you.’
Friday, 11 May
‘The divers seem to think that the body with the weights attached to it had been down there for some time,’ said Paget as they were wrapping up the Friday morning briefing. ‘They said it was half buried in the mud, and they’d have missed it altogether if it hadn’t been for the gold coating on the weights catching the light when they were searching the area for things thrown from the car. And, until I spoke to Sammy Pollock, I was almost prepared to accept that, but Pollock insists that he took the car from where it was parked in the lane next to the back door of Parkside Place, whereas Doctor Bryant claims her car was stolen from outside her home on Falcon Ridge. Now, when it comes to credibility, normally I would go with Doctor Bryant’s version, but I can’t see any reason for Pollock to lie, and Falcon Ridge is certainly well beyond his normal stamping ground. However, since we have virtually nothing else to go on until we have the results of the autopsy next week, we might as well work with what we have, so I suggest we start with a visit to Doctor Bryant.’
‘Wouldn’t the boy look in the boot to see if there was anything worth stealing?’ asked Molly.
‘He claims he didn’t,’ Paget replied. ‘He says all he wanted to do was show it off to Slater and his mates, and take them for a ride. But Slater pushed Sammy out of the car and took off with the others. So,’ he concluded, turning to Tregalles, ‘I’d like you to go and talk to Doctor Bryant and see if she can offer an explanation. But don’t mention the fourth body – at least not yet. When I spoke to her yesterday afternoon to tell her that her car had been recovered, I told her someone would be coming out to talk to her today, so she is expecting you.’
‘What do we know about Doctor Bryant, other than what’s in the report on the theft of her car?’ Tregalles asked. ‘What kind of a doctor is she?’
‘She’s a consultant psychiatrist,’ said Paget. ‘Her husband is Geoffrey Bryant, a psychotherapist. You may remember there was a piece in the paper about him a couple of months ago. He has a private practice here in town, but he donates a couple of days each week to work with traumatized military servicemen and women in the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Birmingham. Doctor Lydia Bryant works from home. She told me she has appointments beginning at two this afternoon, but she is free this morning.’
The driveway curved gently upward beneath a canopy of arching trees, opening out to reveal the house itself. Faux Georgian was what they were calling them these days, Tregalles recalled, although this particular house was on a smaller scale, and looked the better for it. Small stands of fir and spruce bracketed the house like bookends, to ‘ground’ it, in the parlance of estate agents, and make it look as if the house and trees were part of the natural landscape. But the trees would have to grow a bit before that happened, he decided as he got out of the car.
He mounted the shallow steps and rang the bell, then turned to admire the view of the town on the far side of the river valley, with the hills of Wales as a backdrop. The sun glinted on windows of houses, and he realized that one of those houses was Simla House. Strange the way that young woman had disappeared without a trace, he thought sadly, and felt a twinge of guilt for having allowed it to slip so easily from his mind in recent weeks.
The door opened behind him, and a pleasant voice said, ‘DS Tregalles, I presume?’
Surprised, as much by the form of address as the greeting itself, he turned to see a slight, neatly dressed young woman looking at him with amusement. ‘DS?’ he echoed.
Her smile grew wider. ‘I have a brother-in-law in the West Yorkshire Police,’ she said. ‘He’s also a detective sergeant, so I’m familiar with the ranks. My name is Naomi. I’m Doctor Bryant’s secretary. Please come in. Doctor Bryant will be with you in a couple of minutes.’ She led Tregalles across the spacious hall and into what he guessed was a comfortably furnished waiting room for Doctor Bryant’s clients. ‘Can I get you something? Coffee … tea, perhaps?’
‘I imagine the sergeant will be far too busy for that, Naomi,’ a voice said briskly, ‘so let’s not detain him unnecessarily.’
The woman who had entered the room so silently was tall, slim, beautifully made-up and expensively dressed. Good-looking, classical features, in fact, but there was no softness to them. ‘Professional’ was the word he used to describe her later. Fortyish, perhaps? He looked at her hands. Older, he decided.
‘Good morning, Sergeant. I’m Doctor Bryant,’ she said. ‘Now, how can I help you?’ She didn’t offer him a seat.
‘About your car,’ Tregalles began, only to be interrupted by Dr Bryant saying, ‘Ah, yes, my car. I saw the poor thing on TV last night. I suppose it is a complete write-off?’
‘I’m afraid so, Doctor,’ Tregalles took a folded paper from his jacket pocket. ‘This is a list of items that were either in the car or close by in the water, or scattered about the hillside before it entered the water. Obviously, anything that would float is gone, and there may be things the divers recovered that didn’t come from your car. Perhaps you could take a look to see if anything significant is missing?’
A pair of glasses hung from a thin gold chain around Lydia Bryant’s neck, and she put them on before taking the paper from him. ‘They asked me what was in the car when I reported it missing,’ she said as she scanned the page, ‘but I had no idea there were so many bits and pieces in there. All I can say is this looks about right.’
‘Nothing missing that you can think of?’
Dr Bryant shook her head. ‘I can’t think of anything.’
‘The car was locked, was it, when you left it the other evening?’
‘Of course. I believe I made that clear when I reported it.’
‘Could I see the keys?’
Lydia Bryant’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you doubting my word, Sergeant?’
‘Not at all, Doctor. The insurance claims adjuster will want to know if we checked, and Forensic will need them when they examine the car, so if you wouldn’t mind …’
‘I see. In that case, I’ll give them to you when you leave. Anything else?’
‘You said the car could have been taken at any time after eight o’clock on Wednesday evening, but you didn’t hear anything?’
‘That’s right. As I explained, I was either in the back of the house or in the den with the television on, so I wouldn’t have heard it in either case.’
‘But the alarm?’ Tregalles said. ‘I’m not familiar with the alarm on your particular car, but I’m sure it must be pretty loud.’
‘The car i
s fifteen years old,’ Lydia Bryant reminded him, ‘so I don’t know if it even has an alarm. I can’t recall ever hearing it.’ She took off her glasses to look directly at Tregalles. ‘And I believe I answered those questions when I reported the car missing. So why are we going through this again, Sergeant?’
‘Well, to be honest, Doctor, we have a bit of a problem,’ he said. ‘You see, we’ve been told by the sole surviving joyrider that the car was stolen from behind Parkside Place in town.’
‘Really?’ Lydia Bryant frowned. ‘Then either your informant is wrong or the car was stolen twice in one evening.’
‘Who else was in the house on Wednesday evening? Your husband, perhaps? Children? Anyone else?’
The doctor shook her head. ‘My husband is a psychotherapist,’ she said, ‘and he spends every Wednesday and Thursday in Birmingham. He stays in town overnight on Wednesday and comes back Thursday evening. We have no children, so I was here alone.’
Tregalles looked surprised. ‘No live-in help, then?’ he asked.
‘I have a housekeeper who comes in daily, as does Naomi, and I’m not entirely helpless myself,’ the doctor said drily. ‘And I can’t quite see what my staffing arrangements have to do with the theft of my car. What, exactly, is your point, Sergeant?’
‘I’m just trying to account for how the car came to be stolen from here in the first place, and how it ended up behind Parkside Place,’ Tregalles said, ‘and one of the possibilities I was considering was that someone from here – a young person, perhaps – might have “borrowed” it to go into town, but was afraid to admit it.’
Lydia Bryant looked pointedly at her watch. ‘As I said, Sergeant, I was here alone, so I’m afraid you will have to work that one out for yourself. Is there anything I have to do about my car? Or will that be dealt with between you – that is, the police – and the insurance company?’
‘We’ll take care of that, and you will be kept informed,’ Tregalles assured her as he made a move towards the door. ‘And the keys?’ he reminded her.
‘Oh, yes, the keys,’ Dr Bryant repeated. ‘We mustn’t forget the keys, must we? I presume you would like both sets?’
Lydia Bryant waited until she was sure the car was gone before picking up her mobile phone and scrolling through the list of contacts until she reached Podiatrist. She had never been to a podiatrist in her life, and the person at that number was certainly not in that profession, but it served as a cover in case someone – someone like her husband – happened to pick up her phone and started searching for names.
FIFTEEN
Tregalles wasn’t buying it. Lydia Bryant was lying about the car being stolen from her driveway. It was a fifteen-year-old car, so why would someone go out of their way to go up a driveway to steal a car that he or she couldn’t see from the road, and risk being seen from the house, when the neighbourhood was practically littered with much newer Mercs, Beamers and Jags?
Having read Sammy Pollock’s statement before going to see Lydia Bryant, Tregalles decided to take a look at Parkside Place for himself. The block of flats faced Victoria Park, but it was the lane behind the building that interested him. Pollock had said he’d found the Audi ‘sort of tucked out of sight next to the bins at the back’. And there they were: two large bins, one for waste and one for recycled materials, and next to them was a space marked SERVICE VEHICLES ONLY. More than enough room for Dr Bryant’s car.
Tregalles circled the block. A ramp at the side of the building led down to secure underground parking for the residents of Parkside Place, and there were two parking spaces reserved for visitors at the front of the building. Both were occupied, so he took a chance and parked in a loading zone close to the entrance.
There were thirty-two units in the four-storey building. Tregalles ran down the list until he came to one marked SALES/MANAGER. He entered the number, and was rewarded by a pleasant female voice saying, ‘Can I help you, sir?’
He realized that he was on camera and held up his warrant card. ‘Detective Sergeant Tregalles, Broadminster police,’ he said. ‘I’d like a word if you don’t mind?’
‘Of course. Please come in.’ A buzzer sounded softly. He pushed open the heavy glass door and found himself in a spacious entrance hall paved with blue-grey marble tiles flecked with gold. Oak-panelled walls rose to meet a twelve-foot-high ceiling from which hung a chandelier, and facing him was the door of a lift. Carpeted corridors ran to right and left, and Tregalles had the feeling that, if he spoke at all, it shouldn’t be above a whisper.
‘Sergeant?’
He turned to see a young woman standing in the entrance to one of the hallways. She extended a hand as she crossed the floor. ‘Loretta Hythe,’ she said, smiling, but there was a question in her eyes as they shook hands. ‘Are you here on police business, or are you interested in one of our suites?’
Chance would be a fine thing, Tregalles thought. If Loretta Hythe knew anything about a sergeant’s pay, she would know the answer to that question. ‘Police business, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘It’s concerning a car that was stolen from behind this building on Wednesday night?’
‘Really?’ Loretta frowned. ‘Behind this building? This is news to me.’
Through the glass doors, Tregalles saw a woman coming up the steps with a key in her hand. ‘Perhaps we can go inside?’ he suggested.
‘Of course.’ Loretta Hythe turned to lead the way to the first door they came to down the hall. ‘This used to be the sales office and show suite,’ she explained, ‘but now that things have more or less settled down, this is actually my apartment.’ She stood aside to let Tregalles through, then closed the door behind them. ‘I keep this room as an office,’ she explained, ‘because I’m a sales rep for the company as well as the manager of the building.’ With a graceful wave of the hand, Loretta Hythe directed Tregalles to a seat in one of several cushioned armchairs. ‘Can I offer you some tea or coffee, perhaps?’ she asked. ‘It’s no trouble.’
He was about to decline, then thought, Why not? Comfortable chair, very pleasant company, and he was in no particular hurry to get back to the office. ‘If you’re sure?’ he said. ‘Perhaps coffee …’
‘I think Sammy Pollock was telling the truth about where he found the car,’ Tregalles told Paget later. ‘I read his statement, and he described the place where he found the car perfectly. I think Doctor Bryant was lying when she said she wasn’t in town that night; I can’t prove it, but I’m willing to bet she spent the night in Parkside Place. Her husband was staying in Birmingham that night, as he does every Wednesday night, and, with no one else in the house, she could be gone all night and no one would be any the wiser. I spoke to the manager there, but, as she said, people let visitors in all the time.’
‘But not by the back door, surely?’ said Paget.
‘That’s right,’ Tregalles said. ‘You can’t buzz people in through the back door, but if you knew they were coming, you could be there to let them in. Or, because it’s such a recognizable car, the doctor parked it there out of sight and walked around the block to enter by the front door. But if she is meeting someone in secret, I can’t see her doing that.’
‘So how did she get home in the morning?’
‘The person she was with could have driven her home,’ Tregalles suggested, ‘or she could have called a taxi. If she did take a taxi, it shouldn’t be hard to track down a fare from Parkside Place, or somewhere close by, to Falcon Ridge on Thursday morning.’
‘What was your impression of Doctor Bryant?’ Paget asked. ‘I’ve only spoken to her on the phone, and she sounded pleasant enough. Upset about losing her car, of course, but quite reasonable otherwise.’
Tregalles considered the question. ‘Struck me as a bit of a cold fish,’ he said. ‘All business. She’s probably all right, but I don’t think I’d like her messing with my psyche or whatever it is she does, even if it is on a couch. Now, if it was her secretary …’
‘What did Doctor Bryant have to say when you told
her that her car was stolen from Parkside Place?’
‘She said either our information was wrong or it had been stolen twice.’
‘Any nervousness at all? I’m thinking about the body,’ said Paget.
‘Not a flicker,’ Tregalles told him. ‘I don’t know what else she was up to, but I can’t see her leaving the car where she did if there was a body in the boot. Make a good book title, that would. The Body in the Boot … or maybe not,’ he said quickly when he saw the look on Paget’s face. He gave a little cough and cleared his throat. ‘There are thirty-two apartments in Parkside Place,’ he said, ‘but only twenty-two of them have been sold, and I’m including the manager’s in that number. Nineteen are occupied by married couples, or, in one case, an elderly woman with a live-in carer, so I think we can rule all of them out, but the rest look more promising.’ He glanced down at his notebook. ‘First, we have a solicitor by the name of O’Connor. He’s in his late thirties, so he’s a possible. There’s Mr Dunsmuir, a surgeon at the hospital, fortyish and recently divorced, and then there’s Larry Latham. Remember him? The manager of Woodlands Golf and Country Club? Charged with molesting a young woman a couple of years ago, but it was another case of “he said, she said”, and he got off. Don’t know how old he is, but he can’t be more than forty-five or fifty, so he’s a possible candidate.’
‘How old is Doctor Bryant?’
‘Hard to say under all that make-up. Forty to forty-five, maybe?’
‘Why are the rest of the apartments empty?’ Paget asked. ‘Parkside Place must be at least two years old, so what’s the problem with them?’
‘The problem is the economy and timing,’ Tregalles said. ‘They’re at the top end of the scale. To be fair, they are very nice – top quality all the way. Audrey would kill for one of their kitchens. But they misjudged the market, and the prices are just too rich for Broadminster. Most of the people who are in there got a discount when they bought off the plans three or four years ago, but by the time the place was built, people were starting to think twice before spending that kind of money. They haven’t made a sale in almost six months.’