Chapter 17

Rita Thomson studied her image critically in the mirror. Her hair simply wouldn’t behave this morning, but it would have to do. She glanced at the time. Quarter to six. She had to be out of the house by ten to six if she hoped to catch the bus. There wouldn’t be another one along until twenty past, and that was too late to get her to work on time at the Greenfield Hotel where she worked as a dining-room supervisor.

Rita checked her lipstick one last time before turning from the mirror. ‘Amy?’ she called as she shrugged into her coat. ‘Come on, luv. I want to hear you up before I go.’ She listened.

It didn’t sound as if the girl was stirring. Rita hesitated, then quickly ran upstairs. ‘Amy! Time to get up,’ she said sharply as she opened the bedroom door. ‘You know what Mr Rudge is like if you’re…’

She stopped dead. Amy wasn’t there. Neither had her bed been slept in. Where the devil…? She couldn’t have gone to work already. But where was she then? God! Look at the time. Rita felt her temper rising. It was always something with that girl!

She ran downstairs. The house was small, and it took only a minute to determine that Amy wasn’t there. And her bike was gone. Come to think of it, Rita couldn’t recall seeing it last night, either.

Seven minutes to six! She’d have to run if she hoped to catch the bus. Blast the girl, anyway. She’d stayed out all night; that’s what she’d done. Well, just wait till she got home. She might be fifteen years old, but she could still have her behind tanned.

Rita slammed out of the house and ran down the street. If she missed her bus because of Amy …

She knew the bus driver saw her, but he would have started if she hadn’t thrust her arm inside the closing door. It opened and she mounted the step and made her way to the back of the bus and a vacant seat.

She stared out of the window with troubled but unseeing eyes. She hoped Amy was all right; hoped she’d had sense enough to take the pill if she was having it off with someone. Stupid little fool!

Rita felt the sting of tears behind her eyes as her emotions swung from anger to concern. It was so hard to bring up a kid these days, especially a girl like Amy. She was too good-looking for her own good, and she liked the boys. And what with all this talk about AIDS …

Rita blinked rapidly and brushed a tear away. Just wait till she got home!

*   *   *

Paget knew the moment he opened his eyes that it was going to be a bad day. He’d tried to rationalize; tried to tell himself that this was just like any other day, but it wasn’t, and it never would be.

Three years ago today, he had lost the most precious thing he’d ever had. Jill. Torn from him in an explosion that not only took her life, but mangled and burned her body beyond recognition.

Logically, he told himself, the date had nothing to do with it. The memory of that awful time had been just as clear, just as painful yesterday and the weeks and months before as it was today. But logic didn’t enter into it. It was as if the images of that day became more sharply focused on the anniversary date, and no matter what he did, he could not escape them.

Perversely, he wanted to remember, terrible as those memories were. For it seemed to him that by doing so he was somehow sharing them with Jill; sharing the pain she must have suffered – even if, as he’d been told a thousand times, her death was instantaneous.

He was not a believer; nor was he a religious man, but perhaps somewhere, somehow she’d know.

This was not what the psychiatrist had told him to do. ‘I know it’s painful; I know it will leave a scar that will never go away,’ he’d said. ‘Yes, you must weep; yes, you must mourn, but you must also try to concentrate on the good things you shared together. To do otherwise is to indulge in self-pity, and that can only be destructive.’

He was probably right, Paget conceded as he forced himself to get out of bed, but that didn’t make the images go away. Nor did it alter the fact that he felt as miserable as hell!

He had not slept well. His neck and shoulders were stiff. He adjusted the water in the shower until it was as hot as he could bear, then stood there and let it pound his skin. He closed his eyes, remembering the first time that he and Jill had showered together. He could see her now; eyes closed, head back as she turned her face to his and …

‘Damn!’ His eyes flew open and he shook his head to clear it. He was furious with himself for allowing his mind to drift. He turned the water off and stepped out of the shower. It was just one of those silly tricks the brain played from time to time, he told himself. It didn’t mean anything.

But for a moment – just for a fleeting second – the image of Jill’s impish face had changed, and he’d seen instead the face of Andrea McMillan.

*   *   *

Walter Palfrey first saw the bike lying in the grass while he was on his way to work. Looked like a nice bike. Kids. Leave stuff lying about without a thought.

Palfrey saw the bike again an hour later as he was on his way to make his first delivery. He delivered motor parts from a central depot to the garages in the area. It wasn’t a bad job, but it didn’t pay much. By the time he’d paid the rent and bought a bit of food, there wasn’t much left over for cigarettes and beer. Still, it was better than being chained to a desk.

He scanned the hillside leading down to the railway sheds, but he couldn’t see any children. Besides, now that he looked more closely, the bike was too big to belong to a child. Shouldn’t leave a nice bike like that lying about. Someone could come along and pinch it. It would be worth a bit.

Walter Palfrey was still thinking about the bike when he dropped off clutch parts for an Escort at Jessop’s garage on the Worcester road. His next delivery would take him back across the bridge, but it wouldn’t be all that far out of his way if he went back along Tavistock Road. Just to see if the bike was still there.

It was still there. Palfrey slowed and stopped the pick-up. He sat looking at the bike. Drop handlebars; ten or twelve speed; racing wheels. He got out and looked around. The nearest house was a hundred yards away, and the road was quite deserted.

Palfrey plunged into the long grass, grabbed the bike and heaved it into the back of the pick-up. He glanced around. No one had seen him. Swiftly, he covered the bike with a tarp, then got back in the pick-up. A car was coming toward him as he started off, but the driver was talking to his passenger and didn’t give the pick-up so much as a glance.

Palfrey let out a long breath and lit a cigarette. He’d drive over to Welshpool tomorrow. He knew some people there. Go down the pub. Bound to be someone there who could use a bike if the price was right.

*   *   *

Tony Rudge fumed as he pulled the sheets from the bed and tossed them on the floor. Where the hell was Amy? Why hadn’t she come to work this morning? Apart from anything else, it was her fault that he was having to help with the rooms. ‘The girl’s not here, so somebody’s got to clean those rooms,’ his father had told him bluntly, ‘and I’ll not have you hanging about with your hands in your pockets while there’s work to be done. Now get on with it.’

She hadn’t gone to pick up the money; that’s what it was. And now she was too scared to come to work this morning to face him. Stupid little cow. He should have known she’d funk it. Now what was he going to do? Even if he could get away, he daren’t go near the sheds himself in case the police were watching him. And he couldn’t phone Amy to find out what had gone wrong because she didn’t have a phone.

Tony flipped a clean sheet on the bed and tried to straighten it, but the damned thing kept sliding to one side. He went round the bed and pulled the sheet over. Too far. He went back again and pulled it back. Now there was nothing to tuck in at the bottom.

Sod it! He threw a blanket over the sheet and tucked it in. If the customers didn’t like it they could make the bloody thing themselves.

*   *   *

Lenny Smallwood’s hands tightened into fists as the shakes began again. Sweat glistened on his face. His nose was running and tears started from his eyes. He needed a fix, but the bastards wouldn’t give him one. He’d asked for methadone, but they’d told him it wouldn’t work. Instead, they were giving him some sort of sedative that was doing bugger all as far as he was concerned.

His head throbbed with pain, and his face felt as if it had been hammered where they’d wired his jaws together.

A tremor ran through the length of his body and he felt sick. His kidneys were badly bruised, they said. One rib was broken and two were fractured. And his wrist was taped. He was lucky, they said; the arm wasn’t broken after all. Lucky? Christ!

‘Feeling a bit better today, is he, nurse?’

Lenny moaned. Trotter. Stupid little git! Why ask the friggin’ nurse? What did she know? No, he wasn’t feeling better. He felt like death! Tears trickled down his cheeks.

‘He is experiencing quite a bit of pain, Doctor,’ the girl said hesitantly. She was very young and she was afraid of Trotter. The word on the ward was that he had little or no respect for nurses. The charge-nurse had put it more succinctly: ‘He’s a jumped up little sod who thinks he’s God,’ she’d told them matter-of-factly, ‘but he’s still the doctor, so just remember that.’

‘Yes,’ said Trotter absently. ‘Blood pressure is up, but that’s to be expected under the circumstances.’ He studied the chart, then handed it back to the nurse. ‘I see no reason to change the medication,’ he told her. ‘Just make sure he drinks as much water as possible.’ He turned to go.

‘Please … I need something,’ Lenny called after him. ‘Just to tide me over. Those tablets – they’re not strong enough. I need something stronger.’

Trotter returned to the bedside and stood looking down at the boy. ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible, Mr Smallwood,’ he said. ‘I know it must be unpleasant, but you’ll just have to make the best of it for the next few days. I think you’ll find it improves after that. And please do try to control the shaking. If you don’t I shall have to order restraints, and I don’t wish to resort to that.’

‘Bastard!’ Lenny grated. ‘You could give me something if you wanted to.’ He gasped as another spasm shook his body.

Trotter looked across at the nurse and shook his head. ‘Keep an eye on him,’ he said quietly, ‘and let me know if these spasms continue. He could do himself considerable damage if this keeps up.’

Andrea McMillan was talking to the constable outside the door as Trotter left the room. ‘Ah, Dr Trotter,’ she greeted him. ‘Just the man I’m looking for. How is the patient this morning?’

Trotter shook his head. ‘Doing himself no good,’ he said bluntly. ‘He may have to be restrained if he keeps throwing himself about.’

Andrea McMillan pursed her lips. ‘I hope it doesn’t come to that,’ she said. ‘I thought he was coping rather well, considering what he must be going through.’

Trotter remained silent. He was the new boy here, and he wasn’t about to argue with the registrar, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

‘I was just telling the constable,’ Andrea went on, ‘that I think we can allow Chief Inspector Paget to talk to Mr Smallwood, now, but I said I would consult you first, of course. What do you think, Doctor? The boy may be in pain but he’s certainly coherent.’

Trotter bridled. That should be his decision to make, not McMillan’s. ‘Do you really think he’s ready for that?’ he countered. ‘It could upset him further.’

‘It is his mother’s murder the police are investigating,’ she reminded him, ‘and the police do have a right to question him. I shall insist on being present, of course.’

Trotter gave in grudgingly. ‘I suppose it won’t do any permanent damage,’ he conceded.

‘Good.’ Andrea favoured the doctor with a smile. ‘I’ll arrange it then. I know you’re very busy, so I’ll let you get on.’

Andrea waited until Trotter was well down the corridor before turning to the constable. ‘You heard that, I’m sure,’ she said, ‘but please make sure you tell Chief Inspector Paget that I wish to see him in my office before he visits Mr Smallwood.’

Inside the room, the young nurse had just refilled his glass with water when Lenny grabbed her arm. ‘You’ve got to help me,’ he whispered fiercely. ‘Before that policewoman comes back in. The pain is killing me. Can’t you get me something? Anything.’

His face was bathed in sweat, and she could see the naked agony in his eyes. ‘I – I can’t,’ she said. ‘The doctor said…’

‘Sod the doctor!’ Lenny’s fingers dug deeper into her arm. ‘I don’t want much; just something to get me through the next few days. He said it would be better after that, but I need something now! Please?’

The girl pulled away. She felt sorry for him, but what he was asking was impossible. ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘Besides, everything is counted and checked. It’s more than my job is worth. I’m sorry.’ She leaned over to wipe the sweat from his brow. ‘I’ll get some water and bathe your face for you,’ she went on. ‘Make you feel better.’

Angrily, he pushed her hand away. ‘Don’t bother,’ he said sullenly. ‘I wouldn’t want you to put yourself out on my account.’

The girl looked hurt. ‘It’s not that I don’t want to help you,’ she said, ‘it’s just that the doctor’s right. It would do more harm than good. Honestly.’

Lenny glared at her, then lay back and closed his eyes. ‘All right,’ he said resignedly. ‘I don’t want to get you in trouble, but you could still do me a small favour.’

‘Like what?’ the girl said cautiously.

‘My girlfriend doesn’t even know I’m in here,’ he said. ‘Ring her for me and let her know, will you? She’ll be worried sick.’

‘What about the police? Won’t they…?’

‘The police?’ Lenny snorted derisively. ‘They wouldn’t give her the time of day even if they knew about her,’ he said. ‘Besides, I’d sooner they didn’t. I don’t want her dragged into this.’

‘I don’t know,’ the girl said dubiously. ‘I could ask the charge-nurse if it would be all right.’

Lenny groaned. ‘Look, all I’m asking you to do is let her know, for God’s sake!’ He rolled his eyes upward and shook his head from side to side. ‘It isn’t much to ask – but if it’s too much trouble just to pick up a phone, then…’

‘It’s not too much trouble,’ the girl retorted, stung by his words. ‘It’s just that with the police here and everything, I don’t want to get into trouble.’

‘Never mind,’ said Lenny tonelessly. ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He sighed heavily and turned his head away.

The girl knew he was playing on her sympathy, but he he’d had a rough time of it and it didn’t seem fair to keep his girlfriend in suspense.

‘Do you have her number?’

Lenny turned back and looked at her with gratitude in his eyes. ‘I’ve got two,’ he said. ‘If she’s not at the first one, try the other. You won’t tell anyone?’ he added anxiously.

The girl hesitated, then shook her head.

‘Good girl,’ he said softly. ‘And tell her I need the stuff in the bag. The little red one.’

‘What stuff?’

‘Just stuff. You know. Like my razor and comb and washing stuff. Just tell her what I said. She’ll know.’

‘I – I don’t know…’

Sweat ran into his eyes, and it was all he could do to stop himself from screaming at the stupid bitch. He forced himself to speak softly.

‘Look, what harm can it do? Wouldn’t you be upset if your boyfriend was in here like me, and nobody told you?’

The young nurse looked at Lenny for a long moment. Sincerity shone from his eyes, and she hadn’t the heart to turn him down. And as he’d said, what harm could it do?

*   *   *

‘Have you seen Paget this morning, Len? He looks as if he hasn’t slept for a week.’ Tregalles straddled a chair and sat down in front of Ormside’s desk. ‘I asked him if he was all right, and he nearly took my head off.’

Ormside tilted his chair and began to rock gently back and forth. ‘He hasn’t been what you might call “himself” all week,’ he said, ‘but you’re right, he did look worse this morning. Hardly said a word when he looked in. Just checked the boards, looked at the log, grunted and left again.’ He frowned. ‘Is he ill?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Tregalles slowly. ‘It’s more like he has something on his mind. I was talking to him yesterday and it was just as if he’d drifted off and was thinking about something else entirely.’

‘Perhaps he’s got himself a woman,’ Ormside suggested. ‘That could account for his not getting any sleep.’

Tregalles grunted sceptically. ‘If he has, he’s not getting much pleasure out of it,’ he declared. ‘No, I don’t think that’s it. God, the hours he works, when would he have the time? Not that he hasn’t had the chance. Grace Lovett’s been trying to get him to notice her for a month or more, but he hasn’t shown the slightest sign he’s interested.’

‘Then there must be something wrong with him,’ Ormside declared. ‘You’d have to be bloody dead to not notice her!’

Both men fell silent, each lost for the moment in their own particular fantasy that the name of Grace Lovett conjured in their minds. Ormside shook his head and sighed, then pulled a heavy file toward him and the spell was broken.

‘Not much new this morning,’ he said. ‘We have a statement from the bus driver who dropped Mrs Smallwood at Farrow Lane Monday evening. He says she got on outside the bank at twenty-five to six, and he let her off about three minutes past six at Farrow Lane. He said she looked ill, and he thought she’d been crying. She would have gone right past her stop if he hadn’t called out. He also said that if she fell and hurt herself it wasn’t getting off his bus. He said he watched her in his mirror to make sure she was all right before he pulled away, and the last time he saw her, she was walking down Farrow Lane.’

Tregalles grimaced. ‘It’s beginning to look as if Paget’s right,’ he said. ‘He’s convinced that she was raped right there at work by Gresham.’

Ormside grunted. ‘He’d better watch his step,’ he warned. ‘Gresham’s well in with what passes for the upper crust round here, and I wouldn’t put it past him to go running to the chief constable if Paget gets it wrong.’

Tregalles changed the subject. ‘Paget’s going over to the hospital this afternoon to talk to Lenny Smallwood,’ he said, ‘and I’ve been delegated to meet Mrs McLeish and take her to see her sister’s body. Do you know what time her bus gets in?’

‘Two thirty, assuming she caught the one she said she would.’

The telephone on Ormside’s desk rang and he picked it up. He pulled a note pad toward him and began making notes. Tregalles was about to leave, but Ormside motioned him to stay.

‘That was Ted Abbott,’ he told Tregalles as he hung up the phone. ‘He’s been checking out Terrence Ling. Seems Ling wasn’t exactly truthful about where he was the night Beth Smallwood died. A neighbour saw him go out about seven thirty, and says he didn’t come back until well after nine.’

*   *   *

The early morning mist rising from the river had left behind a residue of moisture in the grass. High cloud obscured a hazy sun, and there was no warmth in it. In fact, thought Bill Tuckridge, it was bloody cold for May.

Still, at least it wasn’t raining and he was able to get out. He didn’t like the rain. His old bones ached enough when it was dry, but they really gave him what for after a day of rain. They were aching now as he trudged along the lane.

He’d go as far as the sheds and then turn back. Brindle, the Airedale cross, who hadn’t been out for a couple of days, was enjoying himself immensely, quartering the ground ahead of him, and pausing every now and then to sniff enquiringly or to mark his territory.

Brindle should have been on a leash, but Tuckridge always let him off down here; there was nothing he could harm, and he always came when he was called.

Tuckridge stopped short of the sheds. The ground was littered with all sorts of bits and pieces half buried in the grass, and he didn’t want to take a chance on turning his ankle or falling. ‘Come on, then, Brindle,’ he called as he turned to go back.

The dog stood and looked at him, head on one side as if to say ‘Can’t we stay longer?’ but Tuckridge was already making his way back up the lane. The old man moved slowly, leaning heavily on his stick as he picked his way carefully over the uneven ground. Brindle remained where he was, no doubt hoping his master would change his mind, but the old man continued on.

The dog loped after him, romping through the long grass, snapping playfully at a passing bee. He stopped abruptly at the edge of a small depression, front legs stiff, eyes intent upon his new discovery. Cautiously, he approached and sniffed, then gently nudged the recumbent figure. There was no response. He barked, a short, excited sound, circling and dropping down on his front paws, trying to entice the figure to move.

‘Brindle? Here, boy.’ The dog’s ears twitched, but he ignored the command. ‘Brindle!’ The tone was sharper now. The dog circled the figure once more. ‘Brindle! Come! Get over here when I call you.’

Brindle whined softly, then turned and bounded across the hummocky grass to where his master waited.

‘Flush a rabbit, did you, boy?’ the old man said as he set off once again. Brindle wagged his tail and trotted along beside him, all thoughts of what he’d found now just a fading memory.