Chapter 31

Paget tossed Gresham’s statement on the desk. ‘We still need proof,’ he said wearily. ‘There is nothing here to show that Gresham was ever in that church. Nothing at all.’ He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling as if searching for inspiration. ‘Why did he go back on Tuesday morning?’

Tregalles shrugged and shook his head. ‘I spoke to Dandridge again, and he insists that Gresham was trying to go down Farrow Lane, and the only thing that could possibly be of interest to Gresham down there is Beth Smallwood’s house.’

Paget brought his gaze down off the ceiling. ‘Or Beth herself,’ he said.

Tregalles frowned. ‘But she was dead.’

Paget nodded. ‘Exactly. Perhaps Gresham is telling us the truth.’

‘There is no way that man was telling the truth,’ Tregalles growled. ‘Look at what he did to that poor woman. Look at how he fell apart in there. He’s as guilty as sin!’

‘I agree. Guilty of abusing Beth Smallwood – but is he guilty of killing her? We would like to think he is because of what he did to her, but is he? The evidence against Beecham is far more convincing.’

Tregalles shook his head stubbornly. ‘He must have left something behind,’ he said. ‘Prints, hair, fibres from his clothing. He couldn’t just come and go without leaving a trace.’

‘I went over everything last night,’ said Paget, ‘and there was nothing there that I could…’ He stopped abruptly. ‘Or was there?’ he said softly. He reached for the folder on his desk and began flipping through the pages. ‘Prints,’ he muttered as he searched. ‘Prints and fibres. Yes, here it is.’ He quickly scanned the page and marked it.

He picked up the phone and punched in Starkie’s number.

‘Reg. Paget,’ he said when the pathologist answered. ‘Tell me again about the fibres you found caught in Beth Smallwood’s nails. I have the analysis from the lab, but I want you to tell me exactly what you saw when you first examined the body.’

*   *   *

Paget had just put the phone down and was about to leave the office with Tregalles when it rang insistently. He paused, half inclined to leave it, but turned back and snatched it up.

‘Paget,’ he said brusquely.

‘PC Toogood here, sir,’ said a voice that smacked of rural Shropshire. ‘Sorry to trouble you, sir, but we have a domestic situation here. Woman beat up by her boyfriend, and she refuses to talk to anyone but you, sir. Says she has something important to say about that killing in the church last week. Name of Fairmont. A Miss Rachel Fairmont.’

‘Is Miss Fairmont all right?’

‘She’ll have a bit of a shiner, but no bones broken or anything like that.’

‘You’re ringing from her flat?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Do you have a WPC there?’

‘Yes, sir. Sergeant Radcliffe – he’s my sergeant – sent one along straightaway. WPC Cooper.’

‘Right. I’m on my way. Be there in ten minutes.’

*   *   *

Rachel Fairmont sat huddled in a chair, her long legs tucked under her. She held a cold compress to her face, lifting the cloth just long enough for Paget to inspect the fast-closing eye beneath.

‘Gresham?’ he asked.

She nodded and winced. ‘He’s gone mad,’ she said. ‘He burst in here shouting and swearing. He wouldn’t give me a chance to explain. Just kept screaming at me and shoving me across the room until I was backed up against the wall. Then he hit me.’

Rachel put the cloth back in place and closed her eyes. ‘It was him, wasn’t it?’ she whispered, choking back a sob. ‘I didn’t want to believe it. He swore to me that he had nothing to do with it, but he was so frightened when he left here that night. Beth had told me she was going to the church, and I’d mentioned it to Arthur. He must have gone straight over there to talk to her, and…’ Her voice broke and she buried her face in her hands. ‘I’m sure he didn’t mean it,’ she sobbed. ‘It must have been an accident.’

Paget glanced at Tregalles who was scribbling furiously in his notebook. He pulled up a chair and sat down facing Rachel.

‘You knew what happened in Gresham’s office that afternoon, didn’t you, Miss Fairmont?’ he said quietly.

Rachel lifted her head but she wouldn’t look at him. ‘That’s what you and Gresham were arguing about that night when Beth rang, wasn’t it? Gresham told us that you kept going on and on at him until he couldn’t stand it any longer and he left. You must have known for some time that Gresham was turning his attention to Beth Smallwood – even the tellers knew he’d been pursuing her – and when Beth came out of that office, you knew exactly what had taken place. You tackled him about it that evening. And then when Beth rang and spoke of going to the police the following morning, you thought she meant to tell them about what had happened in Gresham’s office. And that’s what you told Gresham. But that was wrong. Because of her swollen tongue, her words were garbled, and you misunderstood. What Beth wanted to talk to the police about was her son, Lenny, who had just beaten her up, and to tell them that she’d lied for him in court.

‘Arthur Gresham was getting tired of you, wasn’t he? He liked to play the field. He never did intend to marry you; he had too much to lose. He has no money of his own; his wife has it all, and he wasn’t going to jeopardize that!’

Rachel was shaking her head vigorously. ‘That’s not true!’ she protested. ‘He was going to marry me. He was! He swore to me that night that it was me he loyed, and he begged me to forgive him.’ Her face darkened. ‘It was Beth. She led him on. It wasn’t his fault. He loves me, and he’ll need me more than ever now.’

Rachel saw the look in Paget’s eyes as he regarded her swollen face. ‘Arthur didn’t mean to hurt me,’ she said defiantly. ‘He was angry. He thought that I’d betrayed him.’ She shivered and tugged the loose sweater she was wearing closer to her. ‘If only he’d told me,’ she ended miserably.

‘That’s a very nice sweater,’ Paget observed. ‘I noticed it last Sunday. You were wearing it then.’ From the corner of his eye he saw Tregalles look up, obviously puzzled by the seemingly unrelated question.

‘It’s Arthur’s, actually…’ Rachel stopped. ‘But what has that to do with…’

‘And you were wearing it the night Beth Smallwood died,’ Paget continued as if she hadn’t spoken.

‘Yes, but…’

‘It’s wool, isn’t it? Vicuña wool?’

The woman remained silent.

‘I can have the constable check the label.’

Rachel’s lips set in a thin line. ‘So it’s vicuña,’ she flared. ‘But what that has to do with anything I don’t know.’

‘Don’t you?’ asked Paget softly. ‘Then let me explain, Miss Fairmont. Let me tell you what I think happened a week ago Monday when Beth Smallwood was called into Arthur Gresham’s office. In fact, let’s go back further than that, to when Arthur Gresham had to decide how best to cut his staff to satisfy the dictates of head office – and himself.

‘He’d begun to take an interest in Beth Smallwood recently, but Beth was doing her best to stay out of his way. But Gresham knew, as most of you did at the bank, that Beth was living virtually hand-to-mouth. She would do almost anything to keep her job, and she’d jump at the chance of a promotion, no matter what the cost to her personally. Which was what Gresham was counting on. In fact, she was even more desperate than he suspected, because Lenny was bleeding her dry and she had turned to embezzlement to try to keep the boy out of trouble.

‘By getting rid of Harry Beecham, Gresham would save the bank a senior man’s salary and perks, thereby enhancing his own image as a manager. He would then make Beth Smallwood an offer she couldn’t refuse, and she would have no choice but to submit to his demands.’

Rachel put her hands to her ears. ‘I’m not going to listen to this,’ she whispered fiercely. ‘You’re wrong! Absolutely wrong!’

Paget continued as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘But Gresham got carried away that afternoon, and he raped Beth in his office, didn’t he, Miss Fairmont? You were sitting there outside his door. You knew what had gone on behind that door, didn’t you? You knew that it was Beth he wanted, not you, and that’s what you were arguing about that night when Beth made that very unfortunate call to you. She didn’t want to talk to Gresham, not after what he’d done to her, so she called you instead. She said she was going to the police, but her words were garbled because of her swollen tongue, and you thought she was about to turn Gresham in.’

Rachel’s face crumpled. ‘I shouldn’t have told Arthur,’ she whispered. ‘He was terrified. He could lose everything. He said Beth had to be stopped, but I never dreamed he meant…’

Paget was shaking his head. ‘Oh, no, Miss Fairmont,’ he said softly. ‘It wasn’t Arthur Gresham who went to the church that night. It was you!’

The woman became very still.

‘Gresham had a lot to lose, but he was confident that he could buy Beth off with money. Which was why he set out early next morning to see her at home. He had no idea that she was dead. He was trying to get down Farrow Lane to see her, but was stopped by the police.

‘But you, Miss Fairmont, you had set your heart on marrying Gresham, and if Beth went to the police and charged him with rape, you’d lose everything. Your affair with Gresham was bound to come out; your hope of marriage would be gone, and where would that leave you?’

Rachel had dropped the compress and was shaking her head violently back and forth. ‘It’s not true!’ she cried desperately. ‘None of this is true. It was Arthur. He’s the one who said she had to be stopped. He’s the one who raped her, for God’s sake!’

Paget nodded slowly. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly, ‘he raped her and you knew it. You tackled him about it the moment he arrived here that night. And when he left, you got into your car, drove over to the church, and confronted Beth. You didn’t even give her a chance to explain, did you? Why should you? You were so sure you knew why she was going to the police, and you wanted her out of the way. Permanently. As long as she was around she was a threat. Knowing Gresham as you did, you thought he might even talk her round and take her as his mistress.’

Rachel squeezed her eyes tightly shut as if by doing so she could shut him out, but Paget continued on relentlessly.

‘You confronted Beth, grabbed the candlestick and hit her. She tried to defend herself, so you hit her again. But in going down Beth grabbed your sweater, the one you have on, and fibres from it were caught in her nails. I doubt if you even noticed.

‘Then, of course, you had to try to make it look as if it was a random killing for money. You decided to make it look as if Beth was taken unawares while kneeling at the chancel steps, and try to hide the murder weapon at the same time. So you pulled the Cellophane wrapper off the new candles, wiped the holders clean, then set them back on the altar and lit them.

‘You wiped everything you’d touched, or thought you had, but you forgot the Cellophane wrapper on the floor. I doubt if it occurred to you that prints could be taken from it in its crumpled state, but they can. And you forgot one other thing: that you’d handled some of the items in Beth’s handbag when you helped her pick them up earlier in the afternoon.

‘Forensic have a match. The irony of it is that if you hadn’t told me you had helped Beth put things back in her handbag that day, we wouldn’t have had any reason to ask you for your prints, and chances are they would have gone unidentified. As it was, the connection almost slipped past them, and it wasn’t until today that I was able to get confirmation.’

Rachel Fairmont looked very small and vulnerable as she huddled in the chair. She raised a tear-stained face to Paget.

‘I don’t know anything about any Cellophane,’ she said, ‘but you have to believe me. It was Arthur. When I came round to see you yesterday, I thought by telling the truth I would be helping him. I had no idea until he stormed in here today that it was he who had killed Beth.’

Rachel buried her face in her hands. ‘I thought he was going to kill me,’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘I’ve never been so frightened in my life.’

She unfolded her long legs and sat up straight. ‘As for the sweater, I told you it was Arthur’s originally, and he was the one who was wearing it when he left here that night.’

‘You told me you were wearing it that night.’

‘I was, but…’ Rachel hesitated and lowered her eyes. ‘Arthur liked me to be wearing it when he came to me. I – I don’t wear anything underneath, you see, and he liked to take it off me when we made love. When Beth rang, I slipped on my housecoat to answer the phone, and Arthur put on the sweater when he got out of bed.’

‘Are you trying to tell me that you made love that night?’ asked Paget sceptically. ‘I find that very hard to believe, Miss Fairmont.’

Rachel lifted her head and looked directly at him. ‘We were in bed when Beth rang,’ she said simply. ‘But Arthur was in such a state when he left that he simply forgot to take the sweater off. He brought it back the following night and picked up his own sweater. That’s the truth, Chief Inspector.’

‘The truth?’ Paget sighed. ‘We shall see,’ he said quietly. He motioned to WPC Cooper, who had been standing unobtrusively in the background all this time. ‘Help Miss Fairmont get properly dressed,’ he told her. ‘And she’s not to wear that sweater. We will need it for evidence. I’m charging her with murder.’

*   *   *

‘They’re both down there now,’ said Paget, ‘each accusing the other of killing Beth Smallwood.’ He sat across the desk from Alcott in the superintendent’s office.

‘It was a good thing Rachel wasn’t in the room when we read him extracts from her statement. As it was he had to be restrained. When he calmed down, he told us he’d been trying to break off with her for weeks, but she wouldn’t have it. He claims that she flew at him that night; accused him of raping Beth – which of course he did but is still trying to deny – and of trying to break his promise of marriage to her. Which, incidentally, he denies ever making. As for the sweater, he swears that it was she who was wearing it when he left that night.

‘As far as I’m concerned,’ he continued, ‘they can argue all they like about who was wearing the sweater, but it will be the fingerprint that will clinch it. Rachel couldn’t help but know what had happened in Gresham’s office that afternoon, and when Beth rang that night and talked of going to the police, Rachel saw a way to get rid of Beth and – she hoped – make Gresham grateful to her for saving his skin. But Gresham wanted to be rid of her, and when Rachel realized she couldn’t hold him, she turned on him. I think she came here quite deliberately yesterday afternoon to throw suspicion on him while pretending to defend him.’

‘What did Trent say Gresham was wearing when they met?’ Alcott asked.

‘Trent thinks he was wearing a turtleneck beneath his jacket, but he can’t be certain.’

‘So it all comes down to a fingerprint,’ Alcott mused. ‘They both had motive.’

‘That’s right, sir, but I think we’ll find that Rachel Fairmont is the more determined of the two, and she had more to lose – at least she thought she had. Regardless of what we may think of Gresham, I think she really loved him, and when she saw him slipping away from her, she was prepared to do anything to get him back. So, when it looked as if Beth was going to have Gresham charged, she took matters into her own hands.’

Alcott shook his head. ‘I really thought it was Beecham,’ he said almost wistfully, ‘especially when his prints were found in the church.’

‘So did I at first,’ said Paget, ‘but Beth was dead when he arrived. Which explains why Rudge heard nothing before Beecham ran out. Beecham came storming into the church, probably at least a little drunk, and banged the door. Rudge heard it, but by the time he got to the bottom of the stairs, Beecham had discovered Beth’s body. No doubt that sobered him up in a hurry, and all he wanted to do was get out of there as fast as possible.’

Alcott scowled and drew deeply on his cigarette. ‘She’s liable to get away with it, you know,’ he said. ‘A good brief will use Beecham as a red herring and create so much doubt in the minds of jurors that she could get off, despite the fingerprint. Juries are so bloody unpredictable. You never know what they’ll do.’ The superintendent rose from his seat and stretched.

‘Let’s hope they get it right this time,’ said Paget as he, too, got to his feet.

They left the office together. ‘Mr Brock wants us both in his office first thing tomorrow morning,’ Alcott said. ‘He’ll need a full briefing before he talks to the media.’

Paget suppressed a smile. Trust Brock to step in at the last minute and take the credit.

As they came out of the building, Alcott nodded in the direction of the pub across the street and glanced at his watch. ‘Still time for a quick one,’ he observed, ‘and young what’s-is-name will be disappointed if we don’t stop in for at least one.’

Paget looked at him blankly.

‘Maltby. Wife had a boy this morning. Everybody’s invited to wet the baby’s head. You are coming, aren’t you, Paget? I mean, it’s not as if you have anybody waiting for you at home, is it? Come on. We can’t disappoint the lad.’

Paget hesitated only for a moment. He had thought of stopping in at the hospital. Just on the off-chance that Andrea might be there. Still, even if she were there, she’d probably be busy. She had phoned him to thank him for the flowers, but it would be foolish to read too much into that. Anyone would have done the same.

He became aware that Alcott was waiting for a reply.

‘Why not?’ he said. ‘As you say, it’s not as if there is anyone waiting for me at home.’

*   *   *

He was home by ten o’clock, having slipped away from the party as soon as he decently could. Paget had all but forgotten how noisy a pub full of boisterous young coppers could be, and his ears were still ringing as he climbed the stairs. The acrid smell of smoke and stale beer clung to his clothes, and he undressed quickly before stepping into the shower. Hot water poured over him, and he turned his face to it, luxuriating in its warm embrace.

His mind began to drift back to the day’s events. There were still many things to do as far as the case was concerned, of course, but they would be dealt with in the days to come. As far as he was concerned, the case was closed.

There was no doubt in his mind that Rachel was the one who had gone to the church that night. The fingerprint on the candle wrapper proved beyond a doubt that she was there, and since it was on the inside of the wrapper, it had to have been put there after Mrs Turvey saw the candles sealed in their wrapper when they slipped out of Beth Smallwood’s bag. Paget had rung Mrs Turvey himself to check on that very point.

But enough of that, he told himself firmly as he stepped out of the shower and got ready for bed. He stifled a yawn and thought of young Maltby and his friends back at the pub, and wondered how many of them would make it into work next morning – and how they would feel if they did.

His eyes fell on Jill’s picture on the bedside table as he slid beneath the covers, and memories of other evenings, of other celebrations, came flooding in. Memories of the days when he and Jill were together. Memories that would remain no matter what.

But he was beginning to realize that memories of the past and living in the past were two very different things. It had taken him a long time to recognize that. It would probably take even longer for him to accept it, but it was a start, he told himself. It was a start.

He turned out the light and lay there staring into the darkness. He must phone Patrick in the morning. Tell him he’d be there in London to meet him and Louise when they arrived next month. And, painful as it would be, he must find the words to break the news of Jill’s death to his old friend. An old friend he’d long suspected of being in love with Jill himself.