Chapter 28

Graffiti covered much of the walls and glass of the phone booth outside the Three Crowns. The bottom panels had been kicked out, and the floor was littered with broken glass, cigarette butts, chips, and crumpled newspaper.

Tregalles wiped the telephone earpiece on his sleeve before putting it to his ear. Dead, as he’d suspected.

Inside the pub, the landlord told him that he couldn’t remember when the telephone outside had not been like that. ‘I used to report it regularly,’ he said, ‘but even when they did come and see to it, it only stayed mended a couple of days. People are always coming in here asking to use the phone, but if you start that they’ll all try it on, so I say no to everyone.’

‘What about when you’re not here? Might one of the staff let someone use the phone?’

‘Not a chance. There’s only me and Flo – that’s the wife – and Ernie behind the bar of a night, and they know the rules.’

‘Any other phones round here?’

‘There’s one at the bottom of the hill outside the post office, but that’s out of order half the time as well.’

The local BT service supervisor admitted, reluctantly, that he had all but given up on the phone outside the Three Crowns. Yes, according to his records it had been out of order now for almost three weeks. ‘It’s a waste of time and money,’ he insisted. ‘It only lasts a couple of days at most if we do repair it, and we have more pressing priorities. Sorry, but that’s the way it is.’

To his surprise, Tregalles seemed pleased. ‘I think my DCI will like that,’ he told the man. ‘In fact I’m sure he will.’

*   *   *

Sandra Chandler looked thoughtful as she glanced at the clock. She gathered up her notes and put them in the drawer of her desk and locked it. She had promised to meet a colleague for lunch, but there was still time to pop in to see Helen Beecham on the way. Even a few minutes together could help to strengthen the bond between them; help build that fragile bridge of trust.

They’d already started serving meals down on C Ward, and she had to edge her way past several trolleys as she made her way down the corridor. The double doors were open. They shouldn’t have been, of course. They were supposed to be closed and attended at all times to comply with safety regulations, but it was almost impossible to manoeuvre the unwieldy trolleys back and forth at mealtimes without propping the doors open.

Deep in thought, Sandra Chandler was almost past the couple coming toward her before she realized that one of them was Helen Beecham. Her head was turned away, and a bony hand clutched claw-like at her dressing-gown, holding it tightly at the throat. Shuffling along in open slippers, she leaned heavily on the arm of the man beside her.

‘Helen?’ said Sandra gently. ‘Where are you going?’

Helen Beecham’s only response was to bury her head deeper into the shoulder of her companion. He was a small man; grey hair, small moustache, sallow skin.

‘And you are…?’ she asked pleasantly.

‘I’m her brother,’ the man said. ‘I came as soon as I heard. I couldn’t believe it … I mean I had no idea. We’re just going for a little walk while we talk. I do have her doctor’s permission.’

‘Do you really? That’s odd; I don’t recall giving it.’

Alarm flared in his eyes, swiftly replaced by a shrug of apology. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was under the impression that the person I spoke to was Helen’s doctor. I must have been mistaken.’

Sandra planted herself in front of him. ‘You’re damned right you were mistaken,’ she said softly. ‘Now let go of Helen’s arm. You’re not going anywhere – Mr Beecham.’

Sandra Chandler had no fear of the man, but she was not prepared for what happened next. Face contorted, Harry Beecham pulled free of Helen’s grasp and slammed his fist into Sandra’s stomach. She gasped and doubled up with pain. A fist smashed into her face, and she felt herself sliding to the floor.

Beecham grabbed his wife’s arm and dragged her with him as he made for the door, but the trolleys blocked his way. Behind him, Sandra Chandler struggled to regain her breath. She tried to call out but no sound would come.

A trolley crashed into the wall, spilling trays and dinners across the floor. Helen stumbled and fell amidst the food and broken crockery, but Beecham pulled her to her feet and charged ahead. A nurse came running down the hall, but Beecham shoved her out of the way and ploughed on.

‘Please! Harry, please!’ Helen pleaded feebly as she staggered in his wake, but Beecham paid no heed. ‘You’re coming home,’ he grated as he dragged her to a small side door marked ‘Exit – For Emergency Use Only’. Raw sunshine made her blink and turn her head away as Beecham dragged her to the car parked beside the door. He opened the rear door and shoved her inside. She sprawled across the seat, then fell to the floor as Beecham jumped in the driver’s seat and slammed the car into reverse. The tyres screamed. She could smell the burning rubber.

*   *   *

‘We’ve got the bastard!’ Ormside growled.

He greeted Paget with the words as the chief inspector walked through the door of the incident room. The sergeant was itemizing the information from Forensic on a blackboard.

‘Beecham,’ he elaborated. ‘The bloodstains on Beecham’s clothing are Group B, the same as Amy Thomson’s blood. Beecham is Group O. Now, Forensic warn us in their report that that in itself proves nothing, but they also point out that Group B is not all that common in this country, so it’s a step in the right direction. DNA tests will prove conclusively whether they are the same, but that will take quite a bit more time.

‘But there’s more. Samples of grit taken from the tyres of Beecham’s car are identical to those taken at the scene down by the railway sheds. And a metal bar found buried in one of the plant boxes in the greenhouse in Beecham’s garden has bloodstains on it. Group B again.

‘That,’ the sergeant went on, ‘ties him to the attack on Amy Thomson, but there’s more. Several partial fingerprints and palm prints found in the church have been identified as Beecham’s. They were found on the main door of the church and on one of the pews close to the chancel steps. Which,’ he concluded, ‘ties him to the killing of Beth Smallwood.’

Paget stood before the blackboard and nodded slowly. ‘Good work, Len,’ he said quietly. ‘We’ll have him in for questioning.’ He glanced at the time. ‘Where’s Tregalles?’

‘I think he’s upstairs working on reports,’ Ormside said.

‘Right. Give him a shout. Tell him to meet me at the car. We’ll pick up Beecham now.’

*   *   *

Harry Beecham dragged his protesting wife into the house and locked the door. He cursed when she fell as he tried to drag her up the stairs. ‘It’s no good pretending that you’re ill,’ he screamed. ‘Bone bloody idle, that’s your trouble. Get up! Move, you useless cow!’

Helen Beecham struggled to her feet. She’d lost her slippers when she’d fallen at the hospital. Dully, she saw one foot was bleeding where she’d gashed it on the broken crockery. Harry was screaming at her again. She moaned as he pulled her up the stairs. Her arm felt as if it were being torn from its socket.

He literally hurled her into the bedroom, then slammed the door behind her. She heard the key turn in the lock as she sank exhausted to the floor and closed her eyes. She wanted only to be left alone; left alone to die.

Downstairs once more, Harry Beecham sat on the bottom step, panting hard. He’d shown them, he thought triumphantly. They couldn’t take his wife away from him. She was his property; his to do with as he wished. No one had the right to interfere with what went on in a man’s own home. No one!

It was all Gresham’s fault, he told himself bitterly. If it hadn’t been for that sex-crazed bastard, everything would have been all right. Beth should have been the one to leave the bank, by rights, not him. She wasn’t capable of doing the job. Not his job. It was a man’s job; always had been; always would be. She’d have made a right balls of it. Besides, she was supposed to have been his friend. Some bloody friend she turned out to be! As soon as Gresham had offered her the job, she’d jumped at it – or let Gresham jump on her.

Beecham snickered at the thought. Fat lot of good it had done her. Look where she was now. He was glad she was dead. He felt again the excitement, the rush of adrenalin as he’d looked down on her staring eyes and watched the blood oozing from her head. Served her right!

Women! they were all the same. Couldn’t trust them. Let you down every time. His first wife, Esther, had been the same. Wanted to go back to work, to help them get ahead, she’d said. But he knew what she was up to. He wasn’t born yesterday. She’d get ahead all right. Get ahead of him! She’d have her own money and start telling him how things should be. Well, look what happened to her! He’d tamed her! He’d shown her who was boss.

She’d tried to pretend that she was sick as well; too sick to keep the house as she should; too sick to get his meals; too sick … He snorted in disgust.

He saw her in his mind’s eye, standing there clinging to the newel post at the top of the stairs, making those awful mewling sounds. The very sight of her had sickened him. All it had taken was a slight push.

He’d thought Helen would be better. Quiet, submissive, plain. She’d know her place. He’d expected her to give up all that nonsense about painting when they were married – or at least keep it to a nice little hobby that wouldn’t interfere with her wifely duties. But, oh, no. She wanted to ‘express’ herself; be creative; sell her paintings. She wanted to be better then he was; show him up.

Beecham smirked. Well, he’d soon put a stop to that little scheme! He’d shown her where her duty lay.

He became aware of the sound of cars pulling up outside. Doors slammed, and someone shouted. He darted into the front room and lifted the edge of the lace curtain.

Police! Grim-faced; determined. How…?

He dropped the curtain as if it were hot and backed away from the window. He saw shadows flitting past as men ran round the side of the house, and suddenly he was bathed in sweat.

‘Police! Open the door!’ Fists were pounding on the door.

He went cold. Bile rose like acid in his throat, choking him, suffocating him. He ran into the hall. Now fists were hammering on the back door as well. He put his hands over his ears, but he couldn’t shut out the sound. He heard a crash. They’d smashed the glass in the back door; they’d be in the house in seconds.

He went up the stairs, whimpering and scrambling on all fours as he slipped and scraped his shins. The whole house seemed to shake as a burly shoulder crashed into the door below. Sweat and tears ran down his face. His vision blurred. His foot caught on the top step and he sprawled across the landing.

He regained his feet and staggered to an open door. Behind him he heard the splintering crash as the front door caved in. Booted feet thundered in the hall below. Someone shouted, ‘Check upstairs!’

He slammed the door and turned the key.