By midafternoon the following day, as Tregalles scanned the information boards, he had the uneasy feeling that things were not going well. True, they were only partway through the second day of the investigation, but he sensed a loss of momentum, and it worried him. Nothing new was coming in. Apart from a handful of callbacks, every door in the immediate area had been knocked on and the people questioned, but it seemed that no one had seen or heard anything that might prove to be of value, and the same applied to calls in response to the broader appeal to the public through the media.
The route taken by the assailant through the trees and beyond had been searched without result. Last night, uniformed police had manned roadblocks in the streets around Charter Lane, stopping anyone walking or driving through the area to ask if he or she had been there the night before. If the answer was yes, the police questioned the person further regarding anything he or she might have seen around the time of the attack on Paget, but so far they had
drawn a blank. The same thing would be done again tonight and for several nights if necessary, but the sergeant wasn’t optimistic about the result.
Forensic could find nothing to link the short length of gas pipe to the attack on Paget, and it remained to be seen if they could do any better with the torch. It was a cheap, long-barrelled job, mass-produced in China, and while a few had been sold through local outlets in the past few months, no records of the sales had been kept. And, working on the assumption that the weapon used was a straight razor, local shopkeepers, barbers, and antique dealers were contacted and asked about recent sales or even thefts—without result.
“Nothing new on Paget’s condition, I suppose?” he asked Ormside hopefully.
The sergeant shook his head. “I spoke to the laddie on duty at the hospital no more than an hour ago, and he said there had been no change.”
“If only he could talk to us,” Tregalles burst out. “He might know who attacked him, or at the very least, give us a clue where to start looking.”
“It was pretty dark out there,” Ormside cautioned. “I doubt if he could see much, especially if that torch was shining in his face. But at least finding that bolsters the argument that there was another person besides Marshall involved in the attack.”
“I don’t think he was.”
“Marshall? You don’t think he was involved? He had motive and opportunity. Kate saw him out there.”
“Thought she saw him out there,” Tregalles corrected. “She could have been mistaken. He’s got her so wound up she’s jumping at shadows, and as for opportunity, tell me this: if Marshall was standing in the shadow of the excavator opposite the front door and saw Kate come out with Paget, how did he get round the back without being seen by either of them, and join up with a mate who just happened to be there with a torch and a razor? It doesn’t make sense.”
“He could have gone round the back before they came out. There
was mud on his shoes, and there was fresh mud inside the shed where someone was keeping an eye on Paget’s car.”
Tregalles grunted non-committally as he continued to scan the boards. “What’s this thing Fletcher’s on?”
“He’s trying to trace the woman Paget’s housekeeper told Molly about. The one who said she was doing some sort of survey. She probably doesn’t have anything to do with all this, but we won’t know that for certain until we find her. Anyway,” he continued, “if Marshall didn’t do it, who did? And what was the motive?”
“Damned if I know, Len,” Tregalles confessed, “but we can’t afford to overlook other possibilities. Maybe Paget has some deep, dark secret we know nothing about. I mean, what do we know about his private life? I’ve worked with the man for close to four years, and I still don’t know anything about him. So I’m going to spend the rest of the day going through the case files to see if there have been any threats made against him, perhaps by someone he put away.” He paused as another possibility struck him. “Unless, of course, it’s someone he put away while he was in the Met. Someone who’s been released recently.”
“I’ll get on to his old divisional HQ,” said Ormside. “They should be able to dig out that information for us. Brompton, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right. See if you can find someone there who remembers Paget. Tell them how serious his condition is; it might just get them moving a bit faster.”
“Oh, not again!” sighed Audrey as she dropped her knitting in her lap. “It’s no use brooding, love. I mean, you said yourself you’re doing everything you can, so stop worrying about it. Besides, I’ve made three mistakes watching you go round and round this room, and I’ll never get this pullover done in time for Christmas.”
“But that’s just it, am I doing everything I can?” Tregalles flopped into a fireside chair. “I can’t help feeling that I’m letting Paget down. He’s lying there, unconscious, and yet it’s as if he’s with
me all the time, looking over my shoulder, depending on me to find whoever did this to him. But it’s not only that; I feel I’m letting Alcott down as well.”
“Now, you are being silly,” Audrey told him. “You said yourself it’s only been two days, and even Mr. Alcott can’t expect miracles.”
“Feels more like two weeks,” Tregalles muttered as he sat staring at the floor. He was dreading the morning briefing, with everyone looking at him, waiting for his direction and wondering if he was up to it. At least Ormside would be there, and thank God for that. But even Ormside couldn’t produce evidence that wasn’t there. There had to be something they’d overlooked.
He stood up and stretched, then moved toward the door. “Think I’ll just pop back to the office for a bit,” he said. “You won’t mind, will you, love?”
“You didn’t get in till seven as it is, so …” Audrey broke off and shook her head. “Might as well talk to myself,” she said as Tregalles disappeared into the hall.
“Won’t be long, love, I promise,” he called. “But don’t wait up.”
Audrey heard the front door close. She sighed as she began to unravel the last three rows, and wondered, not for the first time, which her husband would choose if it ever came down to his family or his job.
His throat was dry, burning. He could smell the smoke, smell the sickly odour of burnt flesh, and he knew that if he opened his eyes he would see the blackened figure that was once his wife. A voice inside his head was screaming NO! and yet he couldn’t blot out the words. “ … happened yesterday. No one knew who she was until this morning … .”
He was choking … the smell … Oh, God, please let it be a dream … .
The night nurse coming on duty picked up the chart. “You’ve taped his arm to the rail?” she observed. “Has there been a problem?”
The nurse she was relieving shook her head. “Not really, but he kept trying to raise his hand as if trying to push something away. I was afraid he might pull the IV out.”
“He hasn’t regained consciousness, then?”
“No.”
“No other movement?”
“No, but he’s tense, and as you can see by the chart, his temperature is up slightly. It may mean nothing, but I’d keep a sharp eye on him tonight if I were you.” The evening nurse stood looking down at the unconscious man. “Looks a bit different to when I used to see him striding down the corridor on four,” she said. “To tell you the truth, I used to envy McMillan.”
“Dr. McMillan? Why?”
“Didn’t you know? The two of them … you know.”
“Our Dr. McMillan?” Eyebrows shot up. “Get away! You’re making this up—aren’t you?”
“I’m not. She’s been in to see him twice. She was in last night and again tonight. She checks his chart, asks if there’s been any change, then sits by the bed for a while before going on her way.”
The night nurse eyed Paget critically. “Give him a shave and get him on his feet again, he’d probably not be all that bad looking,” she conceded.
“He is quite good-looking, actually.”
“What’s he like, then?”
“A bit like McMillan, I suppose. Sort of—what’s the word? Aloof? You know, all business. Very formal, very polite. A bit old-fashioned, if you know what I mean, but he has a nice smile.”
“Hmm. Sounds like you’ve taken a bit of a fancy to him yourself.”
“No, but I like him. He’s nice, but you can see he only has eyes for McMillan.”
“Can’t think why,” the night nurse said, shaking her head in disbelief. “Are you sure he’s not her brother or something?”