Chapter 8

‘Officially, between eight thirty and nine fifteen last evening is the best I can do,’ said Starkie. ‘Unofficially, if you put the time of death at around ten to nine, you won’t be far wrong. Getting to her so soon after she died, and the stable temperature in the church, helped narrow it down.’

‘Can’t ask more than that,’ said Paget. ‘What about cause of death?’

‘Confirmed,’ said Starkie. ‘In non-technical terms, it was a vicious blow to the side of the head. The victim must have died instantly. But she wasn’t kneeling. In my opinion she was standing when she was hit, and went down heavily on her knees when she fell. There was also a scrape on her left arm, which I believe happened when she tried to ward off the first blow. Which also means she was facing her attacker. It was the second blow that got through.’

‘And the weapon?’

‘Ah! I was coming to that. Forensic found traces of blood in the grooves in the base of one of the candle holders on the altar, and it fits the injury. More tests have to be done, but I’d say it’s a safe bet. But she’d been in the wars even before that. Those injuries to her face and the bruises on her body were caused by someone punching her in the face and knocking her down at least an hour – possibly more – before she died. But there’s more. I found evidence to suggest she’d been raped. Or, if it wasn’t rape, it was certainly rough sex. Her lips were swollen, bite marks on the breasts, and there was heavy bruising around the vaginal area as well as on her back and buttocks. Finger marks can be seen quite plainly on her back.’

‘You’re saying she was attacked and raped an hour or two before she was assaulted in the church?’ said Paget incredulously.

‘No, that’s not what I’m saying,’ said Starkie. ‘Unless I’m very much mistaken, the physical evidence suggests that Mrs Smallwood was raped several hours before she died. Say in the middle of the afternoon or thereabouts. Then, about an hour or so before she died, she was punched in the face and knocked down. The bruises were made at different times.’

‘Good God!’ Three separate assaults in so short a space of time? What had the poor woman done?

‘I also found several fibres under the nails of her left hand, none of which matched her own clothing, so I sent them on to the lab. I suspect they came from the killer’s clothes when she tried to ward off the blow.’

‘On the other hand, they could have come from something with which she came in contact before she was killed,’ Paget suggested.

‘No. I don’t think so. There were too many of them and the fibres were quite long. They would have been a nuisance. She would have pulled them off immediately.’

‘Thanks, Reg. Appreciate your call. You’ll let me have the full report as soon as possible?’

‘First thing tomorrow morning,’ Starkie assured him.

Tregalles, who had been hovering in the doorway for the last couple of minutes, entered the office. ‘Nancy King – you know, the tall brunette who works in the office downstairs – was just in to see Len Ormside,’ he told Paget. ‘She says that Mrs Smallwood rang her at home last night to ask her advice. It seems that Nancy met Mrs Smallwood when Lenny appeared in court, and when she rang last night, she told Nancy that she’d lied at the trial and she wanted to set things right. Nancy told her to come in this morning, and she would make sure she was looked after.’

‘And now she’s dead,’ said Paget slowly. ‘I wonder if young Lenny knew his mum was about to shop him?’

*   *   *

Grace Lovett sat in Paget’s office, one slender, nylon-clad leg draped over the other knee, foot swinging slightly as she watched him peruse the papers in front of them.

‘Good of you to bring these over yourself, Grace,’ Paget said without looking up, ‘but Tregalles could have brought them.’

‘It was no trouble. I came myself in case you had any questions.’

Paget continued to study the papers while Grace studied Paget. She could have sent the papers over with Tregalles, but she’d wanted to see the chief inspector again. She was probably being silly, she told herself, but she was fascinated by the man. He was so – unreachable; so remote. Not that he hadn’t always treated her with courtesy and the utmost respect, but, dammit, she’d like something more than respect from him. She’d like to be noticed for herself.

He looked tired; in fact his face was drawn. He works too hard, she thought, and he could do with a few home-cooked meals. She wished she had the nerve to invite him to dinner.

Grace had rarely seen him smile. All business; everyone who knew him said so; a workaholic in fact. Still not entirely over the loss of his wife. He must have loved her very much, she thought, and felt a twinge of jealousy.

‘Very good, Grace,’ said Paget, looking up. ‘You did well to spot it. I’ll take this round to the bank manager tomorrow morning and see what he has to say about it. There will have to be an audit, of course.’

‘I’m sure there will,’ she said. ‘Would you like me to come along?’

‘No. Thank you, Grace. I can take it from here.’ He stood up. ‘And thanks again for coming in.’

Grace scrambled to her feet and smoothed her skirt. ‘No trouble,’ she said again. She paused at the door. ‘Perhaps you would let me know how it turns out at the bank?’ she ventured. ‘I’d rather like to know.’

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’ll be talking to Charlie, and he can fill you in.’

She smiled her thanks. That hadn’t been exactly what she’d meant.

*   *   *

Lenny Smallwood didn’t dare go back to Tania’s house. Not that her mother wanted him there in any case, but she didn’t have much say in it. Tania would soon put her in her place. Perhaps, he thought, it had been Tania’s mum who’d shopped him. Maybe that’s why that bloke had come snooping round. He wouldn’t put it past her. Bloody old slag!

The question still remained: where to go? He’d spent the afternoon riding round the countryside, considering it to be safer than staying in Broadminster where he might be spotted. But now it was getting dark and he needed a bed for the night, and he daren’t go back to his own house where they might be watching for him.

Bernie’s. That was it. Bernie would put him up. He could sleep in the back of the shop where Bernie rebuilt bikes. He’d bought the bike from Bernie; the least Bernie could do was put him up for a night or two until he could work out what to do. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could hit Bernie up for a snort. Just to tide him over.

It was almost dark by the time Lenny rolled the bike into the yard. The shop was in darkness but there was a light on upstairs. Lenny propped the bike on its stand, went over to the door and pressed the bell. The bell rang in the shop, but Lenny knew it could be heard upstairs. He rang again, and heard a window raised above him.

‘Whadyawant?’ growled a voice.

He stepped back and looked up. ‘It’s me, Bernie,’ Lenny called, trying to keep his voice down. ‘Lenny Smallwood.’

‘So?’

‘I – I could use some help. Can you come down?’

There was no reply, but the window went down. Lenny waited nervously. Suddenly a bolt slid back, a key turned in the lock and the door opened.

Bernie Striker was a big man. Heavy. Round face, small eyes, and a crinkly beard that began at his ears and finished somewhere in the middle of his massive chest. Silhouetted against a feeble light, he looked enormous.

‘Smashed up the bike, I suppose?’ he said, glancing around. ‘Can’t say I’m surprised.’ He caught sight of the bike and scowled. ‘What’s this?’ he demanded, fixing his eyes on Lenny.

‘It’s n-not the bike, Bernie,’ Lenny stammered. ‘It’s me. I need a place to kip for the night. Any old place. The back of the shop. I can sleep on the floor.’

Bernie shook his head. ‘Bugger off home,’ he said, and began to shut the door.

Lenny’s hand shot out to hold the door. ‘Please, Bernie,’ he pleaded. ‘Just for tonight. I – I’ll be gone early in the morning. Before you open the shop, I swear. Please, Bernie.’

The big man sighed heavily and shook his head as if to say he was acting against his better judgement. ‘Better come in, then,’ he told Lenny. ‘You in trouble?’ he demanded as he rebolted the door.

‘Not with the police,’ said Lenny quickly.

‘Who, then?’

Lenny avoided the big man’s eyes, but Bernie was waiting for an answer, and you didn’t keep Bernie waiting. ‘It’s a misunderstanding, that’s all,’ he said. ‘It’s not my fault. Over a bit of money. Like I said, it’s not my fault.’

Bernie’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who?’

Lenny shrugged and tried to smile to show he wasn’t worried. ‘Archie Stern,’ he said weakly. ‘He…’

‘Stern?’ Bernie fairly bellowed the name. ‘Jesus Christ!’

‘It – it’s nothing, really,’ Lenny stammered. ‘Honest, Bernie. He’s going to get his money. It’s just that…’

‘I don’t want to know,’ the big man said. He eyed Lenny for a long moment. ‘You can kip down over there,’ he said, indicating a corner of the shop behind some half-assembled bikes. ‘But I want you out of here come morning. Understand?’

‘Yeah, Bernie, I understand. And thanks. I won’t forget…’

But Bernie had turned his back, and moments later Lenny heard his heavy tread retreating up the stairs. He looked round the shop. There wasn’t much with which to make a bed. Two pairs of overalls hung behind a door, and there was a bin half full of oily rags.

Lenny ignored the rags. He spread one pair of overalls on the floor and rolled up the other pair to make a pillow. The floor was cold and very hard. He whimpered as he tried to sleep.

*   *   *

He was falling! Where from he did not know. He just knew that when he landed it would all be over. He smashed into something on his way down, but it was dark and he couldn’t see what it was. Pain shot through his belly and he vomited into the void. Still falling. He fought for breath. Bang! Another jolting hit, this time in his chest. Light! He peered into the darkness, straining to see. Blazing light! He tried to cover his eyes with his arms but they wouldn’t move.

He woke up retching. His whole body was consumed by fire. He couldn’t see.

‘On your feet, Lenny, boy.’ The voice came from behind the light. ‘We’ve got a message for you.’

Lenny groaned. He couldn’t move.

‘Don’t think he heard you,’ said a second voice. ‘Trouble with his ears, I shouldn’t wonder. Need cleaning out.’

A boot crashed into the side of Lenny’s head. For one split second he was grateful, because now he could die and there would be no more pain. Darkness engulfed him. He began the long slide down; to where he did not know, but neither did he care.

He screamed, writhing, choking, gasping for breath as pain such as he’d never known exploded in his head. He screamed again when they pulled him to his feet, then choked as someone stuffed an oily rag half-way down his throat and bundled him through the door.

Upstairs, Bernie watched from behind the curtain as they frogmarched Lenny into the yard and threw him into the back of a waiting car. The two men climbed in after him, and the car pulled out of the yard with hardly a sound. Bernie went downstairs. Cautiously, he opened the double doors at the back of the shop and slipped outside. He moved quietly for such a big man.

He closed the gates, then wheeled Lenny’s bike inside the shop, closing and locking the double doors behind him.

He stood there for a moment, just looking at the bike. It was a nice machine. A few years old, but in good nick. Lenny had looked after it; he’d give the kid that. Stupid little git. Skimming from someone like Archie Stern was just asking for trouble.

Bernie sighed as he picked up a spanner. It seemed a shame, but it had to be done. And the sooner the better. It was too dangerous to leave the bike as it was. He grunted heavily as he squatted down beside the bike and began to strip it down.

*   *   *

Paget finished the washing up and put everything away. He could have left it for Mrs Wentworth in the morning, but he had little else to do, and he was restless. He wandered through the house. There was nothing worth watching on TV, and he didn’t feel like reading. He felt irritable and ill at ease for no reason.

He dropped into a chair and closed his eyes. But there was a reason, he thought guiltily, and it was right there in his pocket. Patrick’s letter. He would like to see Patrick again. They had shared digs together in the early days, and they had remained friends even after they had gone their separate ways. Not that they had seen a lot of each other after he and Jill were married. But every few months or so, Patrick would come to dinner or they would meet somewhere for a meal. Patrick always had a girl in tow, but he’d made it clear that he was not the marrying kind.

‘A policeman’s wife is not a happy one,’ he used to paraphrase, and Jill would thump him and tell him it was time he settled down.

So now, after all these years, he was getting married. It would be nice to see Patrick again – find out about his job in Canada; talk about old times? But be his best man? There was no way. Not without Jill.