Chapter 30

Paget took copies of the forensic reports home with him that evening, but by the time he’d waded through the jargon and officialese, and mentally followed the movements of everyone who had been in the church the night Beth Smallwood died, he found himself nodding off.

The answer, he felt sure, lay in the reports before him, but he couldn’t see it. There was something he had read that had triggered a response, and yet for the life of him he could not bring it into focus.

He yawned and glanced at the time. It was only nine o’clock, but perhaps a shower and an early night would clear his head. Perhaps a fresh look at things would bring the answer in the morning.

The phone rang. He groaned. It was bound to be something to do with work. He scooped it up. ‘Paget.’ His tone was clipped.

‘Neil?’

‘Andrea?’

‘It is you,’ she said. ‘For a moment there I thought…’ Andrea laughed nervously. ‘Sorry, Neil. What I meant to say was, thank you very much for the flowers and the card. The flowers are beautiful, and the verse was lovely. You really shouldn’t have. But I’m glad you did. They really cheered me up. I should have rung earlier, but…’ Andrea’s voice took on an anxious tone. ‘I’m not interrupting anything, am I?’

‘No, no, of course not,’ he assured her. ‘I’m glad you liked the flowers.’ His mind raced. Andrea sounded so pleased.

‘They’re lovely,’ Andrea said again. She paused, hesitated. ‘I’m told you were enquiring about me at the hospital today. It was very good of you to come. Sorry I wasn’t there, but I was anxious to get home as soon as possible. I didn’t want Sarah to worry.’

‘It was…’ He was about to lie; to say he just happened to be there. He changed his mind. ‘I was worried about you, Andrea,’ he said. ‘You could have been killed by that crazy pair. Are you quite sure you’re all right?’

‘I’m fine. Really.’ Andrea gripped the phone a little tighter and took a deep breath. ‘Neil…’

‘Yes?’

‘I – I was wondering … I mean, I really do appreciate your concern, and I’d like to thank you, well, personally.’ Her face felt warm and her mouth was suddenly dry. ‘Perhaps…’ Her courage failed her. All the things she’d so carefully rehearsed vanished in a cloud of self-doubt. ‘Perhaps, next time you’re in the hospital I’ll have a chance to do that,’ she finished lamely.

Somehow he had expected more. There had been something in her voice, a warmth that had made him think … He dismissed the thought impatiently.

‘There’s really no need,’ he said gruffly.

‘Well … In any case, thanks again, Neil. Goodbye.’

Andrea set the phone gently in its cradle and closed her eyes. ‘Why?’ she demanded despairingly of the empty room. ‘Why is it so damned hard to simply ask the man to dinner? What is it that makes me so unsure of myself when I’m talking to him?’

A sound came from the partly open bedroom door, and Andrea rose to her feet, still mentally shaking her head at her own cowardice. She stood for a moment inside the doorway, watching Sarah as she slept. The child had kicked the covers off in her sleep, and lay with one arm hanging over the side. As Andrea went to her, she recalled the terror of the night she’d thought Sarah was in Victor’s hands, and she shivered violently. She’d trusted a man once, and it could have cost Sarah her life; she dare not make the same mistake again. Not that Neil could be compared to Victor. But then, Victor had seemed all right at first …

Suddenly everything boiled up inside her. Why couldn’t she and Neil have just remained friends? It had been all right, then. She had felt safe with him. Comfortable. Until that night before Christmas when he’d looked at her and she knew; knew that he wanted to be more than ‘just a friend’. Not that he’d said anything, but she could see it in his eyes; sense it in his voice – and she’d wanted to respond.

And that had frightened her, because she knew she could not – dare not allow this man to get too close to her. And then it was too late.

Andrea sighed softly as she moved to the bedside. Why did everything have to be so damned complicated?

Wednesday – 22 May

As Paget was about to enter the building, a fair-haired young man burst through the doors and almost knocked the chief inspector over. Maltby. A junior member of the CPS, and certainly the most impetuous.

‘Oh, God! Sorry, sir,’ he apologized as he recognized the chief inspector. ‘I didn’t mean … I really am sorry, sir, but it’s the wife. I mean I’m going to see the wife … It’s a boy! Seven pounds four ounces. I was supposed to be there, but it came early. I mean he came early. Janet will kill me.’ The prospect didn’t seem to worry him.

‘Your first, I take it?’ said Paget, hiding his amusement.

‘Yes, sir. Oh, God! I almost forgot. Have one of these, sir.’ Maltby reached into an inside pocket and took out a handful of cigars. He thrust one into Paget’s hand. ‘And I really am sorry, sir.’ He patted Paget’s arms as if to make sure he was all right, then leapt the remaining steps and was off like a hare.

Paget still had the cigar in his hand when he reached his office. He had no intention of smoking it, but no doubt Alcott would take it off his hands. He smiled as he rolled the Cellophane-wrapped cigar between his fingers and thought about young Maltby. A son. Must be quite a feeling.

He was about to put the cigar away when he paused. Cellophane, and a partial print – and something he’d meant to check on with Forensic at the beginning of the week. It might mean nothing, but then again …

He picked up the phone.

*   *   *

Arthur Gresham arrived alone. Miss Fairmont, he explained, was not well, and had not come in this morning.

‘Nothing serious, I hope?’ said Paget as he led the way into the interview room.

Gresham looked around the room with obvious distaste as he took his seat at the table. ‘No,’ he said, dismissing the idea with a shrug. ‘Touch of flu or some such thing, I expect. Came on yesterday afternoon and she left early. Made it damned awkward at the audit meeting, I can tell you. Had to bring in one of the other girls to take the minutes, and she didn’t have shorthand. Went on till after six.’

Gresham frowned as Tregalles switched on the tape recorder and entered the time and date and those present.

Gresham looked at his watch. ‘Is all this really necessary, Chief Inspector?’ he asked irritably. ‘I thought that all I had to do this morning was correct my statement. I do have other business to attend to, you know.’

‘I appreciate that, sir,’ said Paget blandly, ‘but there are one or two other matters that have arisen since last we spoke. You don’t object to helping us with our enquiries, do you, sir?’

Gresham eyed the tape recorder speculatively. ‘Of course not,’ he said in a milder tone. ‘That is why I’m here.’

‘Good.’ Paget leaned back in his chair and nodded at Tregalles.

The sergeant opened the file in front of him. ‘Let’s begin with what you told us yesterday,’ he said. ‘You told us that you rang Miss Fairmont about ten o’clock on the night Beth Smallwood was killed, and she told you of the call she had received from Mrs Smallwood. Is that correct, sir?’

Gresham scowled. The fact that it was the sergeant rather then the chief inspector who was asking the questions irritated the bank manager.

‘That’s what I said, Sergeant, and Miss Fairmont confirmed it if you recall.’

‘And you say you made that call from the public telephone outside the Three Crowns. Is that correct?’

Gresham appealed to Paget. ‘You know all this already,’ he said.

‘If you’ll just bear with us, Mr Gresham. We do have to make sure we have everything straight before it is committed to paper.’

Gresham looked less than mollified as he turned to Tregalles. ‘What was the question?’ he asked sharply. Tregalles repeated the question. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said irritably, ‘that is what I said.’

‘You are quite sure of that, sir?’

‘I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t mean it, Sergeant,’ Gresham flared.

Tregalles was unperturbed. ‘You see, sir, the reason I wanted you to be sure is because that particular telephone has not been working for more than three weeks. How do you account for that?’

‘Well, it was working when I used it,’ Gresham said belligerently. I should know. And as I said, Miss Fairmont will back me up.’

‘Yes, well, we’ll come to that in a moment, sir. But I’m afraid British Telecom’s records don’t back you up.’

Gresham turned to Paget once again. ‘Obviously the records are wrong,’ he blustered. ‘Besides, what difference does it make which telephone I used? Miss Fairmont has told you…’

‘Miss Fairmont,’ Tregalles broke in smoothly, ‘has retracted the statement she made in your office yesterday. She now says there was no such call made that night.’ Tregalles tapped the folder. ‘She says you were with her in her flat when Mrs Smallwood rang.’

Gresham’s eyes widened. ‘That’s preposterous!’ he said. ‘When did she tell you this?’

‘Late yesterday afternoon.’

Gresham shook his head as if in disbelief. He took off his glasses and began to polish them.

‘Miss Fairmont came in,’ Tregalles went on, ‘because she realized that we did not believe the fabrication about the phone call – to say nothing of her purported lapse of memory regarding that call – and she hoped to clear things up by telling us the truth. She also confirmed something we had discovered for ourselves – that you and she were lovers.’

Gresham opened his mouth and closed it again. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he said unsteadily.

‘That we knew about it or that Miss Fairmont confirmed it?’ Paget put in. ‘I can assure you, sir, that both statements are correct. We have witnesses who have seen you visit Miss Fairmont’s flat a number of times; witnesses who have seen you park your distinctive car beside the butcher’s shop in Lyall Street, and others who will testify that you were not at Golden Meadows when you said you were.’

Gresham’s face had paled. He moistened his lips. ‘There is no need to go on,’ he said stiffly. ‘You have made your point, Chief Inspector. What is it you want of me?’

‘Miss Fairmont told us that Beth Smallwood intended to talk to the police on Tuesday morning,’ Tregalles said. ‘She says that news upset you. Why was that, sir?’

Gresham half closed his eyes. God! What else had that woman said? ‘I didn’t know what Beth was talking about,’ he said. ‘I wondered if it had something to do with the bank. And if it had, I wondered why Beth hadn’t spoken to me first.’

‘I think you knew very well – or thought you knew – what Beth Smallwood was talking about,’ said Paget. ‘And I think you were scared to death.’

Gresham’s face reddened. ‘I don’t know…’ he began, but Paget cut him off.

‘Then let me remind you, sir. You thought that Beth was going to tell the police about what happened in your office that afternoon. You thought she was going to tell them how she’d been raped on your office floor. But you couldn’t let that happen, could you? You couldn’t allow Beth Smallwood to go to the police with her story. Even if the charge could not be proved, an investigation into your activities would soon reveal your affair with Miss Fairmont, and if that became public knowledge, you’d be on very shaky ground with the bank. Neither, I suspect, would your wife be all that pleased, and you couldn’t afford that, could you? Especially if she wanted a divorce. That possibility alone would spell financial disaster for you, wouldn’t it, Mr Gresham?’

Gresham’s glasses came off again. ‘That’s…’ he began shakily, but Paget cut him off again.

‘Beth Smallwood was raped that Monday afternoon,’ he said harshly. ‘When she came out of your office she was in tears. She dashed straight into the Ladies and stayed there out of sight until Miss Fairmont went in to find out what was wrong. That was at least half an hour after Beth Smallwood left your office, Mr Gresham, and she was still so agitated that she couldn’t even hold her handbag without spilling everything on the floor. Does that sound like the behaviour of a woman who is happy about an unexpected promotion?’

All colour had deserted Gresham’s face. Sweat glistened on his brow. ‘You can’t prove any…’ he began, but Paget cut him off yet again.

‘Can’t prove it?’ he echoed contemptuously. ‘We know from the medical evidence that Beth Smallwood was raped. We know it happened in the afternoon. We know that you had been pursuing her for weeks; your own staff will testify to that! You, sir, cannot keep your hands off women, and there are those who would be only too happy to testify to that!’ Paget reached across the table and grabbed Gresham’s hand. He turned it palm down and jabbed an accusing finger at the four small marks where a fork had once pierced the skin. Gresham snatched his hand away.

‘There were fibres found on Beth Smallwood’s clothing,’ he went on as he released the hand. ‘Her underclothing, Mr Gresham. Carpet fibres which will be compared with the carpet in your office.’

Gresham’s face was ashen. His lips trembled but no words would come.

‘I think that when you left Rachel Fairmont’s flat that Monday night,’ Paget continued, ‘you went directly to the church where you knew the woman you had raped would be alone. You went inside and found her by the chancel steps, preparing to put new candles in their holders. You grabbed one of the candlesticks and struck her, then struck again to make sure that she was dead.

‘But you had to make sure that no one looked in your direction for a motive. You had to make it look as if someone else had done it; a random killing by some unknown. You wiped the candlesticks, set them on the altar and lit them, then took money and credit cards from Beth’s handbag to make it look as if she had been attacked while praying.’

Gresham was shaking his head violently. ‘You’re wrong!’ he gasped. ‘I didn’t kill Beth. I wasn’t anywhere near the church. I had to go to a meeting with the city planner. I…’

‘Your meeting with Ivor Trent was for nine o’clock,’ Tregalles interjected coldly. ‘You left your lover’s flat before eight thirty, and it takes no more than three minutes to drive to the Three Crowns from there. Yet you didn’t arrive until just after nine, and you were so preoccupied that Trent put the meeting off until the following day. Where were you during that half-hour, Mr Gresham? Where were you at the very time that Beth Smallwood was being beaten to death?’

Gresham’s glasses skittered out of his hands and slid across the table, but he made no attempt to retrieve them. ‘I swear I didn’t kill her,’ he whispered. ‘I was driving. Rachel kept going on and on at me about that afternoon until I was sick of it. I just wanted to get away. I didn’t know what to do. I still didn’t know what to do when I realized it was nine o’clock and I had to go and meet Trent.’

The bank manager drew in a shaky breath, and with it tried to rally. ‘It – it wasn’t rape,’ he stammered. ‘Beth was grateful. She was attracted to me, and…’ He broke off as he saw the expression on the sergeant’s face.

‘Would you like to see the photographs of her body?’ Tregalles growled. ‘See the bruises? The gouges in her flesh? Don’t try to tell me it wasn’t rape! And once they’ve seen the pictures, I don’t think a jury would think so either.’

Gresham slumped in his chair and closed his eyes. His face glistened.

Paget eyed him with contempt. He felt no pity for the man. But for all the circumstantial evidence, there was not a single piece of hard evidence that put Gresham at the church when Beth was killed.

‘Why did you try to return to the church the following morning?’ he asked abruptly.

Gresham seized on the question. ‘I wasn’t trying to go to the church,’ he said. ‘Why would I? I didn’t know Beth was dead. I was going to catch her before she had a chance to go to the police. I was going to try to talk her out of it. Offer her money if I had to. Anything…’

‘Including murder?’ Tregalles said.

‘No! For God’s sake, why won’t you believe me? All right! Perhaps I was a bit … a bit rough on Beth, but I didn’t kill her. Why would I go back to see her in the morning if I’d killed her the night before?’

‘But we don’t know that for certain, do we, sir?’ Tregalles countered. ‘You say you were going to Beth’s house, but you could have been returning to the church. Seeing the police there must have come as a shock. You hadn’t expected the body to be discovered quite so soon, had you, sir? So you started to turn to make it look as if you intended to go down Farrow Lane – even made a point of it by arguing with the policeman on duty. But I’m curious, Mr Gresham: what was it that you thought you’d left behind?’

Blood rose in Gresham’s neck and his face became contorted as he half rose in his seat. ‘I wasn’t going to the damned church,’ he screamed across the table. Spittle flew from his mouth. ‘I keep telling you, I didn’t know that Beth was dead!’