The sign said Bridgewater Road. “This is it,” said Alcott unnecessarily as Tregalles turned the corner. “And I think that’s number twenty-eight,” he added a few moments later. “The one with the light in the window.”
“Odd,” Tregalles observed as he pulled in and stopped the car. It was the only lighted window in the street. “I wonder if someone warned him we were coming?”
“They hadn’t better,” Alcott muttered as he got out of the car. He pulled up his collar against the rain and led the way up the short path to the door. The front-room curtains were partly drawn, and they could hear the muffled sound of TV voices as they stood in the shelter of the tiny porch and rang the bell. No answer. Alcott stuck his finger on the bell and kept it there.
The TV went off, a light came on in the hall, and a shadow appeared behind the frosted glass in the door.
“Who is it?” a voice called from behind the door. “What do you want?”
Alcott bent down and pushed the letterbox open. “Police,” he shouted. “We need to talk to you, Mr. Marshall.”
“Police? Can’t it wait till morning? I’m on my way to bed.”
“Sorry, sir, but no, it can’t wait till morning. We need to talk to you now. It’s important.”
There was an audible sigh of resignation from the other side of the door. A chain rattled, and the door opened a few inches. Alcott held up his warrant card. “My name is Alcott, Superintendent Alcott, CID,” he said, “and this is Sergeant Tregalles. Please open the door.”
The chain remained in place. “If it’s next door complaining about the TV being too loud, I turned it down an hour ago, so you can bugger off. I’m going to bed!” The door began to close, but Alcott put his shoulder to it and wedged his foot between the door and the jamb.
“This has nothing to do with the TV,” he snapped. “This is a serious matter involving your wife. Now, please open the door.”
“Kate? What’s happened?” The voice rose. “Is she all right?” The door closed as the chain was slipped off, then opened wider to reveal a man of indeterminate age silhouetted against the light.
“Mr. Marshall? Mr. Paul Marshall?” Alcott stepped over the sill, forcing the man to step back as Tregalles followed and closed the door.
“That’s right. Now, what’s this about Kate? Where is she? What’s happened?” Narrowed eyes searched their faces for answers.
“All in good time, sir. Shall we go inside?” Alcott began to advance down the narrow hall, all but pushing the man toward an open door.
“Do I have a choice?” Marshall asked resentfully as he turned and led the way into the sitting room.
It was a barren, airless room that smelt of … what? The stale,
acidic odour reminded Alcott of the cells after weekend revellers had been cleared out on a Monday morning. Apart from a single armchair, a dining table with two matching straight-backed chairs, and a television set, the room appeared to have been stripped of everything movable. A single bar of the electric fire glowed bright orange, and a pair of shoes with socks draped over them stood on the hearth, presumably placed there to dry.
Marshall crossed the room to stand in front of the armchair as if afraid the superintendent might want to claim it for himself. “All right, so you’re in,” he said truculently as he sat down. “Now, what’s happened to Kate?”
Alcott remained silent, taking his time to unbutton his coat. His nose wrinkled in distaste as his eyes swept the room and settled on the man facing him.
When Alcott first set eyes on Paul Marshall, he thought there must be some mistake. It was only on closer inspection that he realized this was the same man whose picture Kate Regan had shown them, a photograph taken at the time of their wedding. “He was different, then,” Kate had said wistfully, “but he’s changed; he’s not the same man I married.”
In the photograph, Paul Marshall looked very smart in his double-breasted suit, hair short and neatly styled. He had a pleasant, friendly face and an engaging smile. Alcott could understand why Kate had been attracted to him, and why Marshall had been successful as a salesman. What had puzzled him was why Marshall had found it so hard to find another job. But seeing the man now, he was beginning to understand some of the things Kate had told them. This thin, stooped man, with unkempt hair and sallow skin, bore little resemblance to the photograph taken four years ago. His face was gaunt, his eyes like chips of coal, deep-set and watchful, and he hadn’t shaved for days. He wore a shapeless cardigan over a stained shirt, both far too big for him, and his trousers were so badly creased and rumpled that Alcott wondered if the man had slept in them.
“I think you know very well why we’re here, Mr. Marshall,” he
said quietly. “Tell me, where were you earlier this evening around eight o’clock?”
“I’m not answering anything until you tell me what’s happened to Kate,” the man said belligerently. “Is she hurt? You said it was serious.”
“I said it was a serious matter involving your wife,” Alcott corrected. “Now, sir, please answer the question. Where were you earlier this evening?”
“I was here. Where else would I be on a night like this?”
Alcott moved to the hearth and bent to look closely at the shoes. “Hardly the way to treat good brogues,” he observed mildly. “Too much heat cracks the leather.” He picked them up and turned them over. “Mud,” he said. “Looks to me like the clay down at Charter Lane. We’ll take them with us when we leave, Sergeant. And the socks. I’m sure Mr. Marshall has others he can wear.” He set them down again and stood facing Marshall. “Now then, sir, shall we begin again? What were you doing in Charter Lane earlier this evening?”
Tregalles took out his notebook, brushed crumbs from the seat of one of the chairs, and sat down at the table.
“That is where the mud came from, is it not?” Alcott prompted.
Marshall’s brows drew together in a frown. “Charter Lane? I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He spoke carefully, like a man who knows he has had too much to drink and is trying to hide it. “The only time I was out was when I went down to the corner shop for something for my tea.”
“What time was that?”
“Six, seven o’clock. Something like that. I don’t know exactly.” His lip curled. “I didn’t know then that I’d have to account for my time.”
“A bit late to be going for something for your tea, wasn’t it?”
“So I fell asleep. Is that a crime now?”
“Is that the corner shop at the bottom of the road?” Tregalles asked.
“That’s right.”
“So you won’t mind if we ask them if they remember what time it was you came in?”
Marshall shrugged. “Do what you like,” he said. “I’m sure you will anyway.”
Alcott pulled out the remaining chair and sat down in front of Marshall. “Save your lies for your solicitor, Marshall,” he said curtly. “You were seen in Charter Lane.”
“I don’t see how. I wasn’t there. Who says I was?”
“Your wife.”
“Kate?” Marshall groaned and shook his head as if in weary disbelief. “So that’s what this is all about. All right, what’s she been saying about me? What is it I’m supposed to have done now?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
Marshall raised his head. “That’s just it. I haven’t done anything, but Kate keeps making up these stories … .” He broke off and looked hard at Alcott. “You’ve come to warn me off, haven’t you?” he accused. “She tells you some cock-and-bull story about my being in the yard at Charter Lane, and you come out here in the middle of the night to try to put the fear of God into me. Isn’t that how it works? What do you plan to do? Arrest me?”
In the yard! Tregalles wrote in his book, and underlined it.
“Do you deny that you have been stalking your wife ever since she left you?”
Marshall snorted. “Stalking? Is that what she calls it? If you mean have I tried to talk to my wife on a number of occasions, yes, I have, but she just turns her back and walks away.” He sat forward in his chair. “Look, Superintendent, all I want is my wife back here with me where she belongs, but you’ve put so much pressure on her, demanded so much of her time, and made her feel so guilty about leaving the job, that she’s confused. You’ve got her thinking that you can’t do without her down there, when I’m the one who can’t do without her. I’m her husband, for God’s sake! She should be here to look after me as she promised.”
Tregalles raised his head, pen poised above his notes. “Promised, sir?” he echoed.
“That’s right, promised before God when we were married. In sickness and in health. That’s a sacred promise, and it’s her duty to come home to look after me.”
“You’ve been ill, then, have you, sir?”
“Sick, more like. Sick to death of being out of a job. Sick of being told I’m too old. Sick of having to look after myself when my wife should be here to look after me, except she thinks more of her job than she does of me, thanks to being brainwashed into thinking she is actually useful down there. And as for her being made a sergeant, well …” He dismissed that idea with a shrug. “It’s a numbers game with you lot, isn’t it? Got to have so many women, so many blacks, and so on. Right?”
His voice changed to one of earnest pleading. “Just for once, couldn’t you look at it from my point of view? See, I didn’t mind Kate going off to Tenborough every day when we were first married. I was on the road most of the week, and we had our weekends together, so it wasn’t a problem then. But it was different when I became a manager. I expected her to stay home, to be there when I got home each night, but by then she’d become so wrapped up in the job that she didn’t want to leave. I didn’t like it, but I put up with it because I thought sooner or later she’d realize it was her duty to give up her job and stay home. I mean, that’s her place, isn’t it? Here with me. Then, when I was made redundant, I thought that would settle it. There’d be no question; she’d see that she had to stay home. But she didn’t.”
Marshall’s eyes were moist. “I pleaded with her, but she wouldn’t listen. She said there was no need to leave, because she was being moved back here to Broadminster for special training, and everything would be all right. She’d be close to home. But it wasn’t all right. She was still away when I needed her, gone all hours of the day and night. I pleaded with her, but this time she had another excuse. She said they were going to make her a sergeant if she stayed
on, and she’d be making more money, so I wouldn’t have to worry about not having a job.”
His voice rose to an angry pitch, his words beginning to slur. “How do you think that made me feel, eh? Sitting here without a job? It isn’t fair, her having a job while I’m stuck here, day in, day out. I’m the one who should be making the money. It’s my job to look after her. I’m the one who should have a job, not Kate!”
Marshall’s expression hardened. His voice dropped to little more than a whisper, and his eyes became slits. “But then, I didn’t know the half of it, did I? Didn’t realize what had been going on behind my back. I still thought it was all about the job, about her wanting a career. I trusted her, but I should have known by the way she kept going on about him.”
“Him?” said Alcott sharply. “Who are you talking about?”
“As if you didn’t know,” Marshall sneered. “You know damned well who I mean. The one she was always talking about before she left. Day after day, he was all she ever talked about after she was transferred to Broadminster. It was DCI Paget this and DCI Paget that—I’m surprised you need anybody else down there from the way she used to go on about him, he’s so bloody marvellous.” Marshall sighed heavily and rubbed his face with his hands. “I’ll admit I lost my temper,” he continued. “I told her if that was the way it was, if she thought more of the job and this bloke Paget than she did of me and her duty to me, then she might as well stop there with him instead of coming home.” His eyes glistened as he looked at Alcott. “So she did,” he ended.
Alcott shot a questioning glance at Tregalles: did he know anything about this? it said. The sergeant shrugged and shook his head, but the question hung in the air between them. Kate Regan was an attractive woman, and she had been working closely with Paget. In fact, now that Tregalles came to think of it, she had often volunteered to stay behind when she could have gone home. As for Paget, he always stayed late, had done so as long as Tregalles could remember. He’d thought little of it at the time, but now …
“Are you suggesting that your wife is having an affair with Paget?” Alcott’s voice was dangerously low.
Marshall met the superintendent’s stare head-on. “What do you think?” he said defiantly. He looked down at his hands. “It’s not Kate’s fault. She’s such a trusting soul. It’s his fault. He’s got her mesmerized.”
“So you decided to do something about it,” Alcott prompted. “Which is why you were waiting outside the building earlier tonight, waiting for your wife to come out, hoping to catch her with Paget. And when you saw the two of them together, you followed them round the back, waited for your wife to—”
“I didn’t—” Marshall interrupted, but Alcott cut him off.
“Waited for your wife to leave,” he continued as if Marshall hadn’t spoken, “then followed Paget to his car, where you attacked him and tried to kill him. Isn’t that right, sir?”
Paul Marshall looked stunned. He sat very still. “Tried to kill him?” he breathed. “I don’t even know the man; I wouldn’t know him if I saw him. How could I … ?”
“Don’t know the man?” Alcott shouted. “You sit there and tell me your wife is having an affair with one of my men, then expect me to believe you don’t know him after following your wife about for weeks?” He rose to his feet and crossed the floor to stand in front of Marshall. The superintendent was not a big man, but he seemed to tower over the cringing Marshall. “Do you know what I think?” he said. “I think you went down to Charter Lane to spy on your wife, and when you saw her leave the building with Chief Inspector Paget, you waited until she’d gone, then tried to smash his head in and cut his throat. If a police car hadn’t arrived on the scene just then, he would have died. In fact, that is still a very real possibility, and if that happens, you’ll be looking at a charge of murder.”
Marshall refused to look up. “I told you I wasn’t there,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’ve never even met this man Paget. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Alcott turned to Tregalles. “Mr. Marshall will be accompanying
us to the station,” he said. “See if you can find him some other shoes and socks.” He took out his cigarettes, lit one, and inhaled deeply. “Oh, yes,” he added as Tregalles was about to leave the room, “and while you’re at it, Sergeant, you might take a look at Mr. Marshall’s shaving gear.”
“You were right to have me examine him,” the doctor told Alcott, “but he isn’t ill—at least, not in the conventional sense of the word. He is undernourished and he seems confused, but that may be due to the drink. I’ve never seen anything like it; the reading is off the scale. By rights, the man should be unconscious, yet he walks and talks as if he’s had nothing more than a couple of pints. Do you know what he’s been drinking?”
“Vodka,” Alcott told him. “He had a bottle down beside his chair. It was almost empty, and there were others in the house.”
The doctor nodded. “I hope you weren’t planning on questioning him tonight, because I’ve given him something to help him sleep. He’ll be out for some six or seven hours, and when he does wake up, he’s going to feel like hell. Try to get some liquids down him. Food if possible, but I doubt if he’ll want that, so concentrate on the liquids.” He picked up his bag. “Meanwhile, I suggest you get some sleep yourself.”
“We will,” Alcott assured him, and turned to Tregalles. “I want you back here by seven-thirty,” he told him, “but first, I want you to write up your notes while they’re fresh in your mind. Give Ormside a chance to look them over before the briefing in the morning.”
Tregalles glanced at the time as Alcott strode off down the hall. So much for sleep, he thought as he took out his notebook.
Although she had hardly slept at all, Kate Regan was one of the first to arrive in the office that morning. She was desperately tired, but she was determined to do everything she could to regain the confidence
and the trust of her superiors, if it wasn’t already too late. The thought that she might have been responsible for the attack on Paget, no matter how innocently, continued to haunt her. A part of her clung desperately to the belief that Paul could not have done such a terrible thing, that someone else had been lurking out there, waiting for Paget. All she had seen was movement—it could have been anyone—but then she had to ask herself: how likely would it be for someone other than Paul to be standing out there in the rain?
A cold chill touched Kate’s spine as she thought of their brief encounter in the hall as she was leaving. She had come face-to-face with Paul as they were bringing him in for questioning, and she’d been shocked by his appearance. It was the first time she had been that close to him since leaving the house, and she could hardly believe it was the same man. He was gaunt and hollow-eyed, and he seemed smaller than she remembered.
He’d stopped in front of her, forcing Alcott and Tregalles to stop as well. “Kate,” he said sorrowfully. “Why are you doing this to me? Please wait. Please come back home.”
She remembered standing there, unable to speak, unable to move. He looked so slight and helpless between the two detectives, his eyes fixed on her face, soft yet earnest in their pleading. For a fleeting moment she glimpsed the man she’d married, and felt a tug at her heart. She wanted to reach out …
But Alcott had glared at her as if he thought it her fault for being there. “Move on,” he said roughly, nudging Paul sharply in the back. “We haven’t got all night.”
They’d moved on. Kate followed them with her eyes. Paul turned to look back. It was only a glance, but she would never forget the look on his face. Gone was the gentle, pleading look; instead, his eyes were full of hatred as they bored into her own.
Kate didn’t remember going to her car, but she did remember sitting there with the doors locked, listening to the drumming of the rain and trying to stop her hands from shaking.
It was while she was on her way back to Linda’s place that the
idea came to her. She could use Paul’s absence to return to the house for the things she’d left behind in her haste to get away. Things such as clothing, personal belongings, shoes—especially shoes. She still had a key.
The first thing that hit her when she opened the door was the smell. No matter how many hours she’d worked in the past, and no matter how demanding the job, Kate had always prided herself on keeping the house neat and clean and fresh, even if it meant working late into the night, and it had never smelt like this. The door to the living room was ajar. She went in, turned on the light, and stopped dead in her tracks.
What had once been a comfortable if somewhat cluttered room had now been stripped almost bare. There were no pictures on the walls; the big mirror over the fireplace was gone; the sofa and an armchair had disappeared, lamps, and … “Oh my God! The Welsh dresser!” she cried aloud. She had given pride of place to the wedding gift from her mother.
Kate felt a rising sense of panic as she made her way through the rest of the house. It was the same in every room. The bed and chest of drawers from the second bedroom were gone. The room itself sounded hollow, and Kate realized that she was walking on bare boards. The carpets! Those lovely carpets—all gone. In fact, anything that wasn’t needed had disappeared; even the cooker, along with various pots and pans, had been removed from the kitchen; only the microwave and fridge remained. Discarded TV-dinner trays and pizza boxes were stacked high in one corner of the kitchen, and the whole house smelt of stale food and unwashed clothes.
And there were empty vodka bottles everywhere.
Some of her own clothes were still there, but she couldn’t bring herself to touch them, let alone take them with her. She forced herself to take several pairs of shoes, but once she had them she couldn’t get out of the house fast enough.
Now, as she sat at her desk, afraid to look her colleagues in the
eye as they drifted in to work, she wondered how she could possibly get through the day.
It felt more like the end of the day than the beginning, Tregalles thought as he prepared for the morning briefing. After less than two hours of sleep, he’d returned to work at seven o’clock to work with Ormside on the assignments for the day. The sergeant, as always, had matters well in hand, but even so Tregalles felt the need to check everything himself, because this time things were different. There would be no buffer in the form of DCI Paget between Alcott and himself, and he was very much aware that Alcott would be watching him closely every step of the way. But, as he’d told Audrey over a hurried breakfast, “The trouble is, we have no clues. A suspect, yes, but no real evidence.”
“I don’t see why you should worry, love,” said Audrey soothingly. “I mean, you’ve got the bloke in custody already, so …”
But Tregalles was shaking his head. “I don’t know that we have. We only have the word of his wife that he was there outside the station, and even she is by no means certain. He denies it, and there’s no tangible evidence to link him to the crime. Mind you,” he continued, more in hopes of convincing himself than his wife, “I suppose Charlie’s people could come up with something this morning—not that there’s much chance of that with all this rain.”
“You’re a good detective,” Audrey told him firmly. “Mr. Paget told you that himself, so just buck up and tackle it the same way you’ve always done with him. Mr. Alcott wouldn’t have given you the job if he thought you weren’t up to it, now would he?”
Which was all very well, thought Tregalles nervously as he stood by the door and watched a subdued group of detectives filing into the room, but he wasn’t looking forward to what he had to do today.
Kate was the last to arrive, having deliberately remained at her desk until everyone had gone before following them downstairs.
She’d kept her head down, pretending to be absorbed in reading, but she was sure they were talking about her, perhaps even blaming her for what had happened to Paget.
She was about to follow the others inside when Tregalles put out his hand and stopped her. “A word, Kate,” he said quietly. “Come with me.” He led the way across the corridor to one of the interview rooms.
“Close the door and have a seat,” he told her as he moved round behind the table in order to face her. He remained silent for a long moment, thinking about what he had to say. Kate, for her part, sat with hands folded in her lap, trying to mask her apprehension.
Tregalles eyed her across the desk, then blew out his cheeks and took the plunge. “The long and the short of it, Kate, is that, for obvious reasons, you cannot be allowed to have anything to do with this case. Your husband is a suspect—the only suspect at the moment—and as long as that is true, I’m afraid you will have to be sidelined.”
Kate flinched when she heard the words. The thought had crossed her mind, but she had thrust it away, hoping against hope they would realize that she had distanced herself from Paul. But, apparently, that wasn’t enough. Whether Paul was guilty or not, everyone believed he was, and, even though she no longer lived with him, in their eyes she was still his wife, and therefore not to be trusted. Her first black mark, she thought bitterly, and it wasn’t her fault. But whether it was or not, they wanted to be rid of her, so the sooner she collected her things and reported back to Tenborough, the better.
“I understand,” she said stiffly as she rose to leave. Her eyes met those of Tregalles. “I know it’s not nearly enough to say I’m sorry for what happened, but I am sorry, and I blame myself for not telling Mr. Paget that Paul might be out there. I wish …” Kate felt the sting of tears behind her eyes, and bit her lip. “Does Tenborough know I’m coming back?” she asked.
But Tregalles was shaking his head. “When I said sidelined, Kate, I didn’t mean that you were going back to Tenborough. I’m
sorry if I didn’t make myself clear, but as of this moment, you are on indefinite paid leave.”
Colour flared in Kate Regan’s face. “I know no one will want me around here anymore,” she burst out more forcefully than she’d intended, “but on leave, when I could at least be back there doing my old job? Or don’t they want me in Tenborough either? Is that it?”
“No, that is not it, Constable,” Tregalles said sharply. “Believe me, if there was any way we could keep you on, we would, but this is a small region, and even in Tenborough you would have access to information regarding the investigation into your husband’s activities. You know that as well as I do. I discussed this with Superintendent Alcott earlier this morning, and he agreed there is no alternative.”
Tregalles stood up. He liked Kate, and he hated having to do this to her. She had more than pulled her weight in the short time she’d been there, but he had no choice. “Look, Kate,” he said, “if it’s any consolation, you have done well here. I know that Mr. Paget was pleased with your work, but with your husband as prime suspect …” He shrugged and left the rest unsaid. “Is there anything you need from your locker?” Kate shook her head. “In that case, if you will give me your warrant card, I’ll go with you to your car. Sorry it has to be this way, but I have to see you off the premises myself.”