Superintendent Alcott looked up from the report he was reading to see Paget standing in the open doorway. “Come in,” he said tersely. “I’ll be with you in a minute.” He didn’t offer the DCI a seat as he returned to his reading, but Paget sat down anyway.
Alcott sat back in his chair and tossed the report aside. He crushed a cigarette that had been smouldering in the ashtray, and lit another. “I don’t know how you do it,” he said at last, shaking his head, “but if you had come through that door ten minutes ago …” He broke off, at a loss for words. He picked up the report again and tossed it across the desk.
“Read it,” he said. “It just came in from Thames Valley, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say that you and Tregalles had made the whole thing up between you.”
Paget scanned the page. Olive Driscoll, a seventy-eight-year-old widow, had been found dead in the house in which she lived with her son, Lionel Driscoll, QC. Her throat had been cut, and Lionel
Driscoll was the prime suspect, although he had never been charged. Driscoll admitted being in the house shortly before the estimated time of the murder, but claimed that when he left to go up to London for the day, his mother was preparing to go out to do the daily shopping. No one else had been seen entering or leaving the house that morning. In one of his statements to the police, Driscoll claimed he had received a telephone call on the night of his mother’s death, quoting the caller as saying something like: “It’s your fault she’s dead. Now you know what it’s like to lose someone you love.”
A neighbour and friend of the victim was quoted as saying that Olive Driscoll had been devoted to her son, as he was to his mother. In fact, she had described Lionel, now in his middle fifties, as something of a mummy’s boy.
Despite that statement, Lionel Driscoll was still considered to be the prime suspect, but the report ended by saying that DI Radcliffe of the Thames Valley Police Authority, Reading Division, would like to be kept informed of any further developments.
“So I was right,” said Paget, trying not to sound too selfcongratulatory as he handed the report back to Alcott. “This is exactly what I was hoping for. And the sooner this is followed up, the better, because God knows how many more may be on the list. Someone has to go down to Reading, and since I know something of the background—”
But Alcott cut him off. “And since you are on sick leave, Chief Inspector,” he said heavily, “it won’t be you—that is, if anyone goes at all. I can’t afford to have people running all over the country on the basis of a single report that may or may not have anything to do with the case in hand.”
“But it fits,” Paget protested. “The same MO, the same sort of phone call after the killing. Anyway, I’m seeing the doctor later this morning, and there’s a good chance he’ll clear me to come back to work. I could be on my way by this afternoon.”
“Judging by your appearance, I doubt that,” Alcott told him bluntly. “You look as if you haven’t slept for a week, and the last
thing we need is you collapsing on the job, or worse still, running head-on into someone on the road, so forget it.” He drew in a long breath and let it out again, and his tone was less belligerent when he continued.
“Look, I know you want to get back into the game, but damn it, man, your injuries were serious; you should be at home, resting, not chasing all over the country. Until you’re cleared by your doctor, stay out of it. If, and I repeat, if we receive more reports of a similar nature, and your doctor clears you for work, I’ll consider bringing you back.” His voice hardened. “But make no mistake about it, I’m putting you on notice—you and Tregalles. Sick or not, I’m warning you: if you come by any information concerning this case, I want to be the first to know, not the last. And anything involving other Regional Forces, requests, discussions, visits, whatever, are to be authorized by me, personally. Understood?”
Paget stood up. “Understood, sir,” he said. “But I would like to say that Tregalles can hardly be blamed for something I told him to do.”
But Alcott dismissed that with an angry gesture. “You may have put him up to it,” he growled, “but he’s been around long enough to know the rules. He knew you had no authority over him while you were on sick leave. He should have come to me for clearance.”
“Which you would have denied,” said Paget grimly, “and we wouldn’t have that report from Thames Valley on Olive Driscoll.”
Alcott’s voice was dangerously low when he replied. “That will be all, Chief Inspector,” he said. “Don’t let me keep you; I wouldn’t want you to be late for your appointment with your doctor. But when you’ve finished there, I suggest you go home and get some sleep. You’re supposed to be convalescing, and you look like hell!”
Kate was discharged from hospital Monday morning, and Rick took time off work to take her to his flat and get her settled in. “I have to go back in to work at lunchtime,” he told her, “but you’ll be safe here.
I put two bolts on the door yesterday, and I want you to use them when I leave. Now, are you sure you can handle the crutches with your arm in a sling like that?”
“It’s awkward,” she admitted, “but I can manage.” Kate smiled as she looked around the tiny flat. “It’s not as if I have far to go, is it?” she quipped. “So I’ll be all right. And thanks, Rick. You’ve no idea how grateful I am.”
He waited outside the door until he heard the bolts shoot into place before making his way downstairs. But he didn’t go straight back to work as he’d led Kate to believe; instead, he drove across town to the house in Bridgewater Road.
“Superintendent Alcott tells me I look like hell,” said Paget as he and Andrea sat down at their table in the Selkirk Inn. He’d chosen the place because it was close to the hospital, yet quiet and secluded, and the tables were spaced well apart. Ideal for quiet conversation. “Do I really look as bad as all that?”
Andrea eyed him critically, but avoided a direct answer. “What did DeWitt say?”
“Not much. You know what he’s like. He sort of rambles on to himself rather than the patient. But he seems to be satisfied that I’m making progress.”
Andrea slowly shook her head. “That’s not the impression I had when I spoke to him after he’d seen you this morning,” she said. “He felt you were not getting enough rest, and he also felt that you weren’t as forthcoming as you might be.”
“About what, for example?”
“That’s the trouble, he didn’t know. He just felt that you were holding back. I gather you didn’t tell him about your trip to Chipping Norton?”
He forced a smile. “Do we have to talk about me?” he asked lightly.
“You didn’t tell him, did you?”
“No,” he said, and wondered what Andrea would say if he told her he’d driven to London and back. “He didn’t ask, and I didn’t volunteer the information. Besides, I don’t see that it’s done any harm. I feel fine.” He tried to lighten his voice. “So, shall we order and talk about something more pleasant than my problems?”
Later, as he was driving home, he replayed their lunchtime conversation in his mind. Once he had managed to get Andrea off the subject of his health and state of mind, they had chatted amiably enough throughout the meal, but Paget had the feeling that they were circling each other like a couple of sparring partners, each wary of the other.
When the coffee arrived, he decided he could wait no longer. “I’ve missed you, Andrea,” he said quietly. “What with work and everything, it seems we hardly ever get together. Which is why I asked you to lunch. So we could talk about us for a change.”
Andrea seemed to hesitate for a second, then smiled brightly as she picked up her cup. “It has been pleasant, hasn’t it, Neil,” she said. “And it has been a long time. But you mustn’t blame yourself. It’s my fault too. We do work terrible hours, and just lately it seems I never have a minute, what with helping Sten get settled in his place, and having Heather over. She and Sarah get along so well together, and she’s no trouble.”
She set the cup aside without drinking. “And Sten …” Andrea smiled ruefully and shook her head. “I don’t know how he’s managed to look after himself since his divorce. I made photocopies of about fifty recipes and took them over to his flat the other night and spent most of the evening going over them with him. And we spent hours the other day looking at wallpaper for his place. It really needs brightening up. In fact, I told him I’d come over and help him put it up this weekend, because the sooner it’s on, the better. And you should see the kitchen! Cramped doesn’t begin to describe it.”
And that, thought Paget as he pulled up in front of his garage, had been the way the conversation had gone until it was time for Andrea to go back to work. It was Sten Wallen this, and Heather
that, on and on and on. Had she told him that she and Sten had gone out together during that first year in university? No? Well, they had, and he was still the same. Big, bluff, and easy-going. Nothing ruffled Sten. He should never have married Shirley Clapton; everyone knew what she was like. Except Sten, apparently, Andrea had said. “I knew when they got engaged that it would end in disaster. Shirley just could not settle for one man. Fortunately, Heather takes after Sten. She’s such a gentle child.”
Paget switched the engine off and listened to it die. Somehow that seemed appropriate, because he had seen something in Andrea’s eyes when she spoke of Sten Wallen that had not been there when she looked at him. Sten Wallen was probably a nice enough guy, but by the time they left the Selkirk Inn, Paget was wishing he’d never heard of him or his gentle daughter who got on so well with Sarah.
The children had left the table, and they were enjoying their second cup of tea. “That was a grand dinner, love,” Tregalles told Audrey as he settled back in his chair. “Nice bit of pork, that. Not a bit dry like that last one, and that stuffing and apple sauce …” He sighed contentedly.
“Yes, well, I thought I’d try that new butcher’s in Crossley Street for a change. It’s a bit more expensive than the supermarket, but I think it’s worth it.”
“Certainly was tonight,” Tregalles agreed as he sipped his tea. “And there’s a good bit left for tomorrow. Might even get a sandwich or two out of it.”
Audrey stood up and began to clear the table. “No, sit still,” she told him as he, too, began to gather plates together, “and tell me about your day.”
“There’s not all that much happening at the moment,” he said. “Paget was in to see Alcott, and I gather they had a few words, but at least the super seems a bit more willing to follow up on a lead we got from Reading. In fact, I think there’s a chance that he’ll send me
down there sometime this week. Fiona said she thought she heard Paget say he might be back to work soon, but I don’t think he’s ready for it yet. He still looks rough.”
“Reading?” Audrey grimaced. “Will you be gone long, do you think?”
“Shouldn’t think so. Maybe stop overnight, but that’s about all.”
“Overnight!” Audrey seized on the word. “That reminds me—I almost forgot.” She pulled a folded paper from the pocket of her apron. “We had an email from Philip this morning. About Christmas.”
They’re not coming for Christmas! was the first thought that flashed through his head, but it died stillborn. He should have guessed something was afoot. It was unusual to have a pork roast on a Monday, and Audrey had seemed preoccupied during dinner.
“So, what did Philip have to say? Nothing wrong, is there?”
“Oh, no. It’s just that—well, they’re still coming, of course …”
Of course!
“ … but Philip says he has an assignment in Shrewsbury with the Radio Shropshire people early in the New Year, so, since he’ll be here over Christmas, he thought he might as well see to it while he’s here. Ordinarily they wouldn’t work over the holidays, but there’s some sort of push on due to Radio Shropshire going digital—whatever that means. Anyway, you can read it for yourself. Philip explains it all in the email.”
Audrey handed the sheet of paper to her husband, but Tregalles ignored it for the moment. There had to be more. “So what does that mean?” he asked cautiously.
“Oh, well, it doesn’t really change anything, at least, not about Christmas. They’ll still be here Christmas Eve as planned, but he’ll be going back and forth to Shrewsbury each day, beginning the day after Boxing Day. He reckons it will take about a week, and he wanted to make sure it would be all right if they stayed on.”
“They? You mean Lilian will be staying on here”—his voice rose—“for a week?”
Audrey sighed. “I know,” she said, mistaking the reason for his concern, “it won’t be much fun for her, will it, love? Not after London. Which was why I thought it would be a good time to take some of that leave they owe you, so we could take her round a bit. You know, Ironbridge, and maybe the Royal Worcester factory. A day out here and there.”
“Won’t be much open Christmas week,” Tregalles said. It was an automatic response. He was still trying to digest the news that Lilian would be in the house for a week or more. The thought sent shivers down his spine, and the last thing he wanted was to be on leave while she was there. “Besides, the way things are at work, I don’t thinks there’s a snowball’s chance of getting time off.”
“But you could at least try. I mean, it will be something different for the kids as well over the holidays. For me as well. Lilian likes to look round the shops, and it will be nice to have someone like her to go round with.” Audrey stacked the last of the dishes and carried them out to the kitchen.
Tregalles unfolded the paper and pretended to read. He could see it all now. The kids had been to Ironbridge more times than he cared to remember, so they would be bored stiff for a start, and he couldn’t see it as a great attraction for Lilian. Olivia had been round the factory at Worcester twice already, and Brian wouldn’t be interested. Five of them in the car, and Audrey was bound to insist on sitting in the back and giving Lilian the front seat. And with her roving hands and the kids’ sharp eyes … He shuddered. It didn’t bear thinking about.
“We’ll give it some thought,” he called after her. “When does Philip need to know?”
Audrey came to the door. “Oh, that’s all settled,” she told him. “I knew you wouldn’t mind them staying over, so I’ve already sent a reply telling him it’s all right.”