“And it was Pamela Smith?”
“It looks very like her, but it’s not a clear picture.”
“When was this? I mean was it before 16th April when she was last seen down here in Bristol?”
“Just after I think,” said Howard. “I can check.”
“And this place, Stone Winton? How far is that from where Roger Smith’s car was found?”
“About ten miles by road,” replied Howard, “but if you go cross country on the North Belshire Way, it’s only about five.
“The North Belshire Way?”
“Long distance footpath. Cuts round below Spar Hill Lookout.”
“So she could have dumped the car and walked back to Stone Winton.”
“Not difficult if she knew the way. But that’s not all.”
“Go on,” prompted Crozier.
“When Sylvia Durston was killed a few weeks ago, there was a huge turnout at her funeral. Local school teacher…you know. The school closed for the afternoon so that her pupils could attend if they wanted to. The church was packed, but it appears that Sylvia Durston had no immediate family, and sitting in the front pew with Miss Durston’s solicitor was the same woman. At least Emma Wilson is certain that’s who it was. She pointed her out to the boyfriend who was covering the funeral for his paper. He got his photographer to get a good snap of her.”
“And it was her?”
“Looks like it,” Howard said. “It’s a much better picture than the one with the long lens, and it looks remarkably like the lady you’re looking for. Much smarter, mind, than the one in the picture you’ve been putting out.”
“We couldn’t find a decent one. Smith didn’t seem to have any all. We found that one in her desk. It obviously came from a strip she’d had taken in a photo booth. There were two identical and two had been cut off to use for something.”
“Well, the likeness is very marked. Justin Woods asked to be introduced to her, saying he was writing a piece on the funeral and wanted to meet the chief mourner. The solicitor took him over and introduced her as Arabella Agnew.”
“So we assume that’s the name she’s using now?”, said Crozier, making a note.
“We’ve followed that up,” Howard said. “Once we had a name and the chance that she had indeed been the lottery winner, we checked with lottery company and they finally admitted that an Arabella Agnew from the Belcaster area had won a roll-over jackpot in early March. One of my men went to see them and they produced the security photo that was taken when she came to collect her cheque. Looks like our girl.”
“But surely she had to produce photo ID to prove who she was?” Crozier asked. “Was that in the name of Arabella Agnew?”
“Well, according the bloke my man saw, one David Hall, she produced a passport and a photo driving licence. Both in order, both in the name of Arabella Agnew. Mr Hall said that she came by arrangement on the 6th May to claim her win. That was some weeks after the draw that she won. That was in early March. She gave no explanation as to why she had not claimed it earlier, but she came with a friend to receive her cheque. She produced the lottery ticket, which was checked and was indeed a winning ticket, and they gave her the money. She asked for complete anonymity about her win, and the lottery people guaranteed it. They weren’t even very keen to answer our questions, or to show us the security photo. And,” Howard went on, “they have fixed her up with financial advisors. e haven’t contacted them yet, but I have the name of the firm concerned.”
“I see.” Crozier thought for a moment and then asked, “How certain are you that this woman at the funeral is Pamela Smith?”
“I don’t know. Ninety-five per cent? It seems to be the same face, but she’s certainly had some sort of makeover from how she looks in your picture.”
“Frumpy!” put in Crozier.
“Yes, well that’s all changed in the one I have,” laughed Howard. “In mine she’s got a stylish haircut, no grey hair, and subtle make-up, but basically it’s the same person, tarted up. The clothes she’s wearing in the funeral photograph are clearly expensive. Not surprising, eh, if she’s really won the lottery.”
“And do we have an address for this Arabella Agnew?” asked Crozier.
“Yes, got it from the solicitor. She’s got a flat in Chelsea. Haven’t checked that out yet. Thought I’d leave that bit to you. Your case after all.”
Crozier wrote down the addresses Howard gave him and with no further information to receive, he thanked his opposite number in Belcaster and rang off.
He sat for some time at his desk thinking through what he had just heard. It would appear that Pam Smith was indeed alive and well and living in Chelsea under the name of Arabella Agnew. Crozier’s murder case against Roger Smith was folding up before his eyes. It sounded as if what Smith had said was true, that after they’d had a fight, his wife had left him unconscious in the house, taken his car and driven away. She must have got as near to where she was staying as she dared, dumped the car at the lookout place, hiding it in the bushes and then walked to her friend’s house from there. If she were injured in the fight it would account for the blood in the car. It would account for some of the blood-stained clothing, though not perhaps Roger’s shirt, and the watch.
No wonder she hadn’t touched her joint account with Roger, Crozier thought wryly, it she’d really won all that money. Interesting though, she seems to have gone to a lot of trouble to create a new identity before laying claim to her prize. She must have decided to disappear with her win.
Crozier thought of his sister. Well, at least Marilyn’ll be pleased to know that Pam’s safe. After all it was she who started this whole thing off. If I’m honest, Crozier admitted to himself, I wouldn’t have followed it up at all if I hadn’t come across Roger Smith for handling the stolen goods. At least I’ve got him for that, even if he didn’t murder his wife.
Crozier looked at the address in Chelsea. He could get someone from the Met to check it out, or he could send Grant. He thought of Grant and his men turning over the innocent earth of Roger Smith’s garden and sighed.
I’ll go over and see how things are going, he thought looking at his watch. I could do with some fresh air. I’ll go and tell them we’ve had some evidence that Pamela Smith was alive and well and living in Chelsea. Should please them, they can stop breaking their backs.
Taking up his coat he headed to the door, but even as he opened it the telephone on his desk rang. He groaned and let it ring a couple of times while he decided whether he was out, then reluctantly turning back, he picked up the receiver.
“Crozier.”
“Grant here sir,” Sergeant Grant sounded breathless.
“Grant!” Crozier was surprised. “I was just on my way over to see you. How are you doing?”
“That’s why I was ringing, sir, to ask you to come over. Didn’t radio in for the world to hear,” Grant explained. “Wanted you to have a look first.”
“A look? What at?” Crozier demanded.
“Got some human remains,” answered Grant, still sounding breathless, “buried in the garden.”
“On my way,” Crozier snapped and made for his car.
Outside 12 Cardiff Road a small crowd had already gathered, amongst whom Crozier recognised two local reporters. The vultures are here, he thought as he drew up at the kerb. How do they get wind of things like this?
“Inspector! Inspector Crozier! Is it true you found Pamela Smith’s body buried in the garden?” one of the hacks called out to him.
“Give us a chance, gentlemen,” Crozier replied as he went to the front door. “As soon as we have anything definite we’ll let you know.”
Grant was waiting for him and led him round to the back of the house. The sergeant and his men had been busy. The small garden was marked out in squares with tape, and each square had been dug to a depth of about six feet and left with a flag marking it as searched.
“Over here, sir,” Grant said leading him to the bottom of the garden where the earth
was black from the remains of a bonfire. It was the last square in that row, and the men had dug to a depth of about four feet. There projecting from the blackened soil was six inches of bone, standing up like an accusing finger.
Crozier stared down at it.
“There are more sir,” Grant told him. “ Looks like the top of a skull over here, but we stopped digging until you got here.”
“Right.” Crozier dragged his eyes away from the bone and looked at his sergeant. “You’re sure they’re human?”
“As sure as I can be, sir, without digging any further.”
“Fair enough,” Crozier said. “Radio in for the doctor and set up a crime scene.”
As Grant began speaking into his radio, Crozier knelt down on the blackened earth and gently brushed a little more soil away from the protruding bone. He studied it for a moment. It looks like part of an arm, broken off at the wrist, he thought, but it might not be. Then he turned his attention to the rounded surface of the skull, about three inches of which had been laid bare.
No real doubt here, he thought, that’s human all right. “Well?” he said standing up again and turning to Grant.
“Doc’s on his way, sir.” He glanced down at the two pieces of bone. “Quite an old burial, wouldn’t you say, sir?”
“Yes,” agree Crozier thoughtfully. “Certainly not Pamela Smith. I wonder who it is.”
“Probably his first wife!” The sudden voice made the two men start, and Crozier spun round to find himself face to face with Margaret Hillier, peering over the fence that separated the gardens.
“I beg your pardon!” Crozier stared at her.
“I said it was probably his first wife,” Margaret Hillier repeated. “Deirdre. She disappeared too, you know. I told your constable when he first came round. I said to him, I said, ‘his first wife just vanished too’.”
“And you are…?” Crozier asked unable conjure up her name from his memory.
“Margaret Hillier. Mrs. I live next door. I’ve been watching your men. I said to my husband, ‘Harry,’ I said, ‘they’ve finally got round to looking for poor Pam’s grave in that monster’s garden,’ I said, ‘and about time too.’”
“Thank you, Mrs Hillier,” said Crozier. “I’m sure that will be most helpful. I’ll send one of my men round to take a statement from you. In the meantime, I wonder if you could leave us to get on here. It’s not very nice for someone like you to have to watch us digging up human remains. I’m sure you would rather not see such a thing.”
Mrs Hillier bridled and said, “Of course not, inspector. I’ll be going inside now. I just thought, well, you know….”
“I’m sure you did,” Crozier said sweetly, adding with a little more steel in his voice, “It would be a great help to us, Mrs Hillier, if you didn’t discuss this with anyone other than your husband for a while. You know, just till we have investigated further.”
“Of course not,” Mrs Hillier sounded offended. “I’m not one to gossip, you know.”
“Of course,” Crozier agreed, but as he watched her return to her kitchen he said to Grant, “So that’s why the press are here already!”
“Did his first wife disappear too?” asked Grant, intrigued.
“No idea. Something to check up on as soon as you’re finished here.” But the comment had triggered something in his brain and he heard Marilyn’s voice saying the same as Margaret Hillier….‘his first wife disappeared too’. She had said that when she had first rung him about Pamela Smith. He had laughed and dismissed it at the time, now perhaps….
It was two hours later when he finally got back to his office. Tossing his coat onto a chair he slumped down behind his desk.
Well, he thought wearily, the chief’s got his body, but it’s not the one he was expecting and we still don’t know for certain where Mrs Pamela Smith is. He’d have to ask someone to get on to the Met and have that address Howard had given him checked out; to confirm one way or the other whether this Arabella Agnew is Pamela Smith.
As to this new body, all the doc had said so far was that it was almost certainly a woman. If it were Roger Smith’s first wife they’d be able to check her DNA and compare it with her daughter, Karen’s. An easy enough ID if that were the case.
Crozier was reaching for the phone to call the Met when there was a knock at the door and the desk sergeant appeared with a letter in his hand.
“Sorry to interrupt you sir, but this has just been delivered by hand,” he said holding it out to Crozier. “Brought over from the central police station with your name scrawled on it. Said it was for your attention, sir.”
“What is it?” asked Crozier as he took it.
“Don’t know sir, it’s addressed to the officer in charge of the Pamela Smith case in Bristol and someone over there’s marked it for your attention.”
“Thank you, sergeant.” Crozier picked up a paper knife from his desk and carefully slit the letter open. Inside was a single sheet of paper which he drew out and placed on the desk. His eyes flicked to the signature at the bottom of the page and what he saw made him draw in a deep breath.
“When did this arrive?” he asked the sergeant who was just leaving the room.
“Delivered here about ten minutes ago,” replied the sergeant.
“Anything else, sir?” he asked as the inspector continued to stare at the letter.
Crozier glanced up. “No,” he said. “No, thank you.”
The sergeant closed the door and Crozier turned his attention back to the letter. It was dated the day before, but there was no address at the top. It started,
To Whom it May Concern
I understand my husband Roger Smith is helping the police with their enquiries over my disappearance and may even be charged with my murder. This is to tell you I am alive and living under a new name. I am leaving the country for the present and would be grateful if you would reveal neither my name nor my whereabouts - should you discover them - to my husband or his daughter. I have been abused by both of them, verbally, physically and mentally, for the past eighteen years and I have no intention of allowing either of them into my life again. If you need to verify that it is indeed I who have written this letter I suggest you test it for fingerprints. There will be no one’s but mine, and I’m sure you have those on file by now.
I was very tempted to leave my beloved husband to his fate. After all, I have been a virtual prisoner for eighteen years and serving life for my murder would give him the same. However, I will make do with the years he’ll face for all his other nefarious activities.
Yours, Pamela Smith (that was)
PS. Have you discovered his lock up garage in Newport Mews? It might well be worth a look!
Crozier read and re-read the letter, careful not to touch it again so that it could indeed be dusted for fingerprints, but he had little doubt whose he would find. After the information he had that day received from Belcaster, he was quite prepared for Pamela Smith to be living under a new name. She hadn’t disclosed it, but he had no doubt that it was Arabella Agnew.
Roger Smith had not murdered his wife…his second wife, that was, but what about his first? Crozier would pay him another visit in the morning, to discuss the matter; and if this Arabella Agnew did indeed turn out to be Pamela Smith, her new identity would be quite safe as far as Crozier was concerned.
Chapter 29
André switched off his mobile, angry with himself for oversleeping. He had intended to be outside Arabella’s flat before she went out so that he could keep an eye on what she was doing. He had almost been convinced at dinner the night before that they were really going to South Africa, but there was still a tiny niggle at the back of his mind. He didn’t trust her. She had disappeared before, suppose she did again? What would he do then? Well, he knew what he would do, and so did she, for he had spelled it out to her.
“If you do a runner on me,” he had warned her as they separated at Harrods the previous day, “I shall go straight to your Roger and tell him all
about you. About your new name, where you live and about the lottery.”
Arabella had eyed him resignedly and said, “I don’t doubt it, André. Don’t worry, I’m not going to put my money at risk, I do assure you.”
André did believe her, but he also had no doubt that the information he had would be worth a tidy sum to Arabella’s husband. Just in case she did rat on him, he had printed up several copies of the photos he had taken, so he had the documentary proof for Roger Smith, if necessary. He smiled grimly at the recollection. All part of his insurance.
The other possibility, which might prove even more lucrative, would be to go to one of the tabloids with the whole story. Abused wife escapes from husband and then wins the lottery. Fakes her own disappearance to make it seem that her husband has murdered her. Yes, André liked that one. That would surely be worth a tidy sum to one of the papers. One way or another he could make money out of the situation, but these courses of action were only his fail-safes. He’d be far better off sticking with Arabella; if he played his cards right he could spend his life in the lap of luxury.
When he had left her at her flat the previous evening, André had waited in a doorway a little further up the street to see if she went out again. Despite the plans she had outlined to him over dinner, he didn’t completely trust her. He could see the light from her flat; it was on for some time, but even when darkness finally enveloped the building, André had waited for another hour to be sure that she wasn’t going to sneak out. By the time he got home it was past three in the morning, and now he had overslept.
At least she’s still there, he thought, as he got out of bed. Sounds as if she’s really going through with our plans.
He studied his face in the bathroom mirror. Still handsome, he thought. Never had trouble keeping a woman interested before. Quite the opposite in fact! He thought of a few tricks he could yet teach Arabella and he smiled, never doubting his ability to keep her with him…one way or another; but in case of disaster, he would take his document file with him.
A Dish Served Cold Page 30