Chapter 5

The cottage was in darkness, and there was no answer to their continued knocking. ‘Try the keys from Mrs Smallwood’s bag,’ Paget said. ‘One of them should fit.’

‘Here! What do you think you’re up to, then?’

The two men turned to face a large, sharp-featured woman wrapped in a dressing-gown. She stood outside the open door of the cottage next to number 7. Her feet were clad in trainers without laces, and her hair was stiff with curlers.

‘Police,’ Tregalles said, introducing himself and Paget. He produced his warrant card. ‘Would you be Mrs Turvey?’

‘I would,’ said the woman. ‘What’s young Lenny done this time, then? This is the second time someone’s been round tonight.’

‘You must be chilly,’ Paget said. ‘Perhaps we can talk inside.’

Doris Turvey eyed him critically. ‘Chief Inspector, eh?’ she mused. ‘He must have done something serious to bring you out this time of a night.’ She motioned them to follow her inside. ‘I’ll switch the fire on,’ she said. ‘It’s that cold for May. Sit yourselves down, then. Would you like some tea?’

‘Thank you, but we won’t be staying long,’ Paget told her.

The room was small and cluttered with furniture, and an astonishing number of knick-knacks of the seaside holiday variety occupied almost every square inch of space. Wisely, the two men chose to remain standing just inside the door while Mrs Turvey knelt beside a chair to switch on the electric fire.

‘Funny, there being no one home next door,’ the woman said. ‘Can’t say I’ve ever known Beth Smallwood to be out this late.’ She glanced at the clock on the mantel. ‘It’s after twelve. That’s not like her. She said she was just going up to the church.’

‘What time was that?’ Paget asked.

The woman thought for a moment. ‘Must have been after eight o’clock,’ she said at last. ‘Yes, it was, because Coronation Street was finished and I’d made a cup of tea. Say ten past.’

‘Where was she when you spoke to her?’

‘Right outside that door. We had a few words, and…’

‘What about?’ Paget asked.

Doris Turvey squinted at him. ‘What do you want to know that for?’ she demanded. ‘What’s this all about? Something’s happened, hasn’t it? It’s young Lenny, isn’t it?’

‘Why do you say that?’ Tregalles asked.

Doris Turvey grimaced. ‘I should have thought you’d know more about that than me,’ she said. ‘I mean, he is out on licence.’

Paget loosened his coat. The room was becoming warm. ‘Could we go back to your conversation with Mrs Smallwood?’ he said. ‘You say she told you she was going to the church. Did she say if she was meeting anyone there? Anything like that?’

Mrs Turvey shook her head. ‘She just said she was going up to the church to tidy up like she usually does. Oh, yes, and to take some candles. She had them in her bag. For a wedding there tomorrow.’ She glanced at the time. ‘Well, today, now, I suppose,’ she amended.

‘Did you talk about anything else?’

‘Just young Lenny, like always. Never a moment’s peace when he and that girl of his are about. Playing that rock music while his mum’s at work. Comes right through the wall, it does, and with my Fred on nights he can’t sleep, you know.’

‘Did you notice anything different about Mrs Smallwood when you were speaking to her?’ Paget broke in. ‘Did she seem all right?’

Doris Turvey looked at him. ‘Ah, so that’s it, is it?’ she said, nodding sagely. ‘No, she wasn’t all right. Her face was all swollen, and she’d hurt her leg.’

‘Did she offer any explanation for the swollen face?’

‘Tried to tell me it was an accident,’ the woman scoffed. ‘Fell of the bus, she says, but I wasn’t born yesterday. After all that shouting and carry-on when Lenny came home? That boy will be the death of her, and I told her so.’

Paget and Tregalles exchanged glances. ‘Are you saying it was Lenny who did that to his mother?’ Tregalles said.

‘Like I said, she tried to say it wasn’t, but that’s Beth for you. Keeps a tight rein on her feelings, does that one. But I heard them going at it,’ she said. ‘Lenny shouting, and then there’s this sort of crash, and I heard Beth, well, sort of cry out. I tell you, it gave me the shivers.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘Lenny and that girl of his came out of the house and went off on the motorbike. Glad to see the back of ’em, I was, I can tell you.’

‘What time would that be?’

Mrs Turvey thought about that. ‘Can’t say I noticed the time,’ she said. ‘But it would be a good half-hour before Beth came out of the house.’

‘Between seven thirty and quarter to eight, then,’ Tregalles said. ‘Would that be about right?’

The woman began to nod, then paused. ‘No, I tell a lie,’ she said. ‘It was a bit before half-past seven. He always revs that bike up so loud you can’t hear yourself think, and I was thankful that he did it before I sat down to watch the telly.’

Tregalles made a discreet note. ‘You say Mrs Smallwood mentioned falling as she got off the bus. What bus would that be?’

The woman shrugged. ‘The one from town, I expect. Not that I believed her. Funny, though, it was the first time I’ve known her come home on the bus for months. Late, she was, too.’

‘I don’t suppose you know what time that was,’ Tregalles ventured hopefully. It wasn’t entirely a vain hope; Mrs Turvey seemed to keep a sharp eye on the comings and goings of her neighbour.

The woman thought. ‘It must have been around six,’ she said slowly. ‘Yes, that’s right, because she was later than usual and I remember wondering why she hadn’t been brought home by that Mr Beecham.’

‘Mr Beecham?’ Paget raised an enquiring brow.

‘He’s Beth’s boss. At the bank. Brings Beth home in his car.’ Mrs Turvey gave Paget a knowing look. ‘Stops there a good long time, too, some evenings. But he didn’t bring her home tonight. Came round later, though, in ever such a state. Banging on the door and calling out, so I went to see what that was all about. He wanted to know where Beth was, so I told him she was up at the church. Ever so short with me, he was. Not like him at all.’ She lowered her voice. ‘To tell you the truth, I think he’d been drinking.’

‘And what time was that, Mrs Turvey?’

‘Must have been going on for nine, I should think. It was beginning to get dark.’

‘Do you know where Mr Beecham lives?’

Mrs Turvey didn’t know, but she had the impression it wasn’t far away. Paget questioned her closely, but there was little the woman could add to what she’d already told them. Paget switched direction. ‘How old is Lenny Smallwood, Mrs Turvey?’

‘Nineteen.’

‘And he lives at home?’

‘That’s right. Except Beth did say something that made me think he might not be living there much longer. Talked about going to see the police tomorrow. And not before time, neither, as far as I’m concerned. Sounded like she meant it, too. He’s a nasty bit of goods, is Lenny, and that’s a fact. Not that I’ve ever known him to hit Beth before, but then, you never know what goes on behind closed doors, do you?’

Paget was about to ask another question, but Mrs Turvey held up her hand. ‘Now, fair’s fair,’ she told him. ‘I’ve answered all your questions; now you answer mine. I want to know what’s happened. I know we don’t always get on, especially when it comes to the way Lenny carries on, but I like Beth Smallwood. She’s a good soul if only she wouldn’t let that son of hers walk all over her. I hope she does throw him out, then we can all have some peace. Now, what’s this all about, eh?’

Tregalles looked at Paget, and the chief inspector nodded. ‘I’m afraid I have to tell you that Mrs Smallwood is dead,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

The woman stared at him. ‘Dead? Beth? You can’t … How? What happened?’

‘We don’t know ourselves at this point,’ Tregalles told her. ‘It appears that she may have been attacked while she was working in the church.’

‘Oh, my God!’ The woman shook her head in disbelief. ‘But why? Who’d want to do such a thing?’ She paused and her expression changed. ‘He must have come back,’ she said softly as if to herself. ‘Beth told him he’d have to leave and he wouldn’t like that, would he?’ Mrs Turvey looked at Paget. ‘It was Lenny, wasn’t it?’ she said. ‘I was right. I knew it! I knew there’d be trouble one day. You ask my Fred. I always said…’

‘Mrs Turvey,’ said Paget sternly, ‘I must caution you not to jump to conclusions. We don’t know who is responsible, and until we do it would be most unwise to indulge in speculation. Now, perhaps you can help us further. Do you know if Mrs Smallwood had any other close relatives?’

Doris Turvey shook her head. ‘If she had any, I never heard her speak of them.’

‘I see.’ Paget stopped, head on one side, listening. The deep-throated sound of a motorbike could be heard coming down the lane. ‘Is that…?’

‘That’s Lenny, now,’ Mrs Turvey said. ‘I’d know that bike anywhere.’

There was a burst of sound, then silence. Paget opened the door and stepped outside, followed closely by Tregalles. It was very dark, but light from the open doorway outlined the bike. A helmeted rider was in the act of dismounting when Paget called out to him: ‘Mr Smallwood? Leonard Smallwood?’

The figure paused, then in one swift motion remounted the bike and kicked it into life. Both policemen started forward, but they were too late. The bike leapt forward, almost unseating the rider before he brought it under control, and roared off into the night.

*   *   *

It was two o’clock by the time Paget let himself into the silent house. He scooped up a fistful of handbills that had been shoved through the letter-box, and walked through to the kitchen. He tossed them on the table. More rubbish for the recycling bin.

He yawned and stretched. He was tired but his mind refused to let him rest. He kept picturing the face of the woman on the chancel steps. Was Tregalles right? Was it simply a case of a robbery that had gone terribly wrong? Or was there more to it than that? Certainly the son’s behaviour was suspicious, taking off like that when they approached him. But had it anything to do with the murder?

He filled the electric kettle and plugged it in, then slumped down in a chair to wait for it to boil.

Idly, he began to sort through the handbills and found an official-looking letter mixed in with them. Personnel Department, Metropolitan Police. What was that all about after all this time?

Curious, he tore open the envelope. Inside was another envelope, this one addressed to him at his old office in Victoria Street, and it bore a Canadian stamp.

He opened the envelope, took out the letter and read:

Dear Neil, Abject apologies for not writing before, but you know what it’s like when you’re settling in. Can’t believe that it’s almost five years since I left, but I suppose it must be. I always meant to write, but the first two years were a bit hectic, and well, you know I’ve never been much good at that sort of thing, so all I can do is say sorry again.

But I must tell you why I’m writing now. You’ll never believe this but I’m getting married!!! Knew that would knock you over, but it’s true!

Patrick Truscott, the perennial bachelor, was getting married. Paget shook his head and smiled.

Patrick had been best man at his wedding, but they had lost touch with each other after Patrick went to Canada to join a communications company as a security adviser. There had been a couple of Christmas cards, but then nothing. Their last Christmas card to him had been returned stamped ‘Not known at this address’, and there had been nothing since.

Then Jill had died.

Paget closed his eyes. He didn’t have to look at the calendar to be reminded of the date. It would live forever in his brain. Three more days. He’d been aware of the date for weeks, yet, perversely, he’d tried to put it out of his mind. Three years ago this Friday was the day Jill died. God! it was hard to believe that she’d been gone for three years. He could see her now in his mind’s eye as clearly as if she were there in front of him: dark hair, dark eyes, vivacious, with that peculiar lop-sided grin of hers. So short a time together. Four years. If only …

The shrill whistle of the kettle interrupted his thoughts. He unplugged it without being conscious that he’d done so, his mind still full of memories. He picked up the letter and began to read again.

He stopped. He felt as if he’d been kicked. His hand closed on the letter and slowly crushed it. ‘Damn you, Patrick!’ he said fiercely. ‘Why now? Why did it have to be now?’