Paget waited impatiently until the middle of the afternoon before phoning Len Ormside to ask if he’d heard from Tregalles. If the sergeant had left for Reading first thing this morning, he should have reported in by now. But Ormside seemed surprised by the question. “Heard from him?” he said. “Well, yes, in a manner of speaking, but he’s in with the super at the moment. Would you like me to have him ring you when he comes out, sir?”
“You mean he hasn’t gone to Reading?”
“Been here all day, sir,” Ormside told him.
“Then who has gone to see this man Driscoll?”
“No one, sir. Superintendent Alcott said he wanted to wait until we have more information.”
“More information or more killings?” Paget demanded.
“I wouldn’t know about that, sir,” said Ormside neutrally, “but more information has come in today, so I should think someone will
be following that up tomorrow. Tregalles is upstairs briefing the super now.”
“Exactly what sort of information … ?” Paget began, but stopped himself. There was nothing to be gained by involving Ormside, and possibly getting him into trouble. “Never mind, Len,” he said. “I’ll have a word with Mr. Alcott myself—but I won’t be mentioning this conversation.”
“Thank you, sir.” The sergeant was clearly relieved. Not that he could see any harm in what he’d told Paget, but you were never quite sure where you stood with Alcott, so the less said, the better.
Paget hung up the phone and looked at the time. Alcott rarely left the building before six, and it would only take twenty minutes or so to drive into Broadminster. He hesitated, held out his hands and looked at them. They seemed steady enough.
Half an hour later Alcott looked up to see Paget standing in the open doorway once again. He sat back in his chair, shaking his head as he regarded the DCI. “I’d hate to be your doctor,” he said wearily. “What is it now? Been talking to Tregalles, have you?”
Paget looked surprised. “No. Isn’t he in Reading?” he asked innocently. “But speaking of my doctor, I just wanted to let you know that he’s cleared me for light duties, and I was wondering if—”
“Light duties?” Alcott eyed Paget suspiciously. “Which means what, exactly?”
“Just that. Can’t do anything too strenuous yet, but he told me I can do most normal things.” In fact, what DeWitt had said, at Paget’s prompting, was, “I don’t see any harm in your doing light duties around the house. It will be up to you to listen to what your body is telling you, and make sure you don’t overdo it. It’s important that you eat properly, continue with your iron supplement, and get plenty of rest. Your blood count is still low, and it will take time to build it back up again.” And it had been at that point that Paget had changed the subject by asking an unrelated question.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Alcott said cautiously. “But that doesn’t
mean you can come back to work. God knows I could use you, but I don’t want you back until you are completely fit. All right?”
Paget nodded. “But while I’m here,” he said, “I would like to know if we’ve received any other replies to our RFI, and what, if anything, you’ve heard from Reading.”
Alcott grimaced and lit a cigarette. “It’s beginning to look as if you might be right,” he said. “Mind you, there’s no proof of any connection yet, but there does seem to be a pattern. A razor was the weapon used in several killings in the past six months. What appears to be lacking is a clear motive. There are suspects, but no one has been charged in any of the cases we’ve heard of so far.”
“Well, at least we’ve made a start with Reading,” said Paget. “Has Tregalles had a chance to talk to this man Driscoll yet?”
Alcott eyed him suspiciously. “We don’t have anyone in Reading,” he said, “but then, I suspect you know that. Tregalles wanted to go down this morning, but I told him to hold off until we had more information. He’ll be going down first thing tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.” Paget looked thoughtful. “It might be useful to have someone go with him,” he said. “Mind if I go along, sir? As an observer, so to speak,” he added hastily. “Since I did spend some time with Dr. Braun in Richmond, I would be in a better position to spot similarities or differences between her story and Driscoll’s. Tregalles could take care of the driving, so I wouldn’t be doing anything more than I would if I were at home.”
Abruptly, the superintendent swung his chair around to face the window. It was pitch-black outside, so the only thing he could see was the mirror reflection of the office. But it was here that Alcott retreated when he needed time to think, and Paget was wise enough in the superintendent’s ways not to speak.
“Tell me,” Alcott said after a lengthy silence, “what would you do if I ordered you to go home and stay there?”
“If you ordered me to do that, I would be facing a very difficult choice, sir,” said Paget quietly, “but I’m hoping I won’t have to do
that. I was very nearly killed by these people, and if there is a link between me and victims in other parts of the country, I have a better chance of spotting it than anyone else. As I see it, sir, you can’t afford to keep me out of it, not when there is the possibility of others being killed.”
Alcott swung round to face Paget. “I hope to God you know what you’re doing,” he growled, “but it seems I don’t have much choice in the matter. Go down and see Tregalles. He’ll brief you on what we have, and you can accompany him tomorrow. But”—Alcott raised a warning hand as Paget was about to speak—“you go as a passenger. Nothing wrong with giving Tregalles the benefit of your experience, but let him do the donkey work. And I want your word that you’ll pack it in at the first sign of fatigue. Understood?”
“Understood, sir. And thank you.”
“Just one thing more before you go. I had our doctor speak to your doctor yesterday afternoon, and we have a full report on your condition. So if you like your job, and you want to remain involved in this case, don’t try to con me again. Is that clear?”
“Very clear,” said Paget meekly as he closed the door behind him.
Early the following morning, Tregalles made a detour through Ashton Prior on his way to Reading. He had briefed Paget the night before, and their visit to interview Lionel Driscoll had been cleared with the Thames Valley Police, and Driscoll had been notified. “By the book,” Alcott had stressed, and Tregalles had no intention of incurring the superintendent’s displeasure again.
They chatted in a desultory fashion for a while, but it soon became apparent that something was bothering Tregalles. A frown creased the sergeant’s brow, and he seemed more and more preoccupied as time went on.
“Are you going to tell me what’s bothering you, Tregalles,”
Paget finally prompted, “or are we going to continue the journey in silence?”
Tregalles let out a long breath. “It’s just that … Well, this isn’t going to work, is it, sir?” Instinctively, Paget felt he knew what the sergeant was about to say, but he waited for Tregalles to spell it out. “I mean this business of me doing the leading when we get down to Reading. I know what Mr. Alcott said, but when a DCI and a sergeant walk in together, nobody’s going to look to the sergeant, are they? It’s only natural that they’ll look to you, and that’s how it should be. Then everybody knows where they stand, including me.”
The same thought had been in the back of Paget’s mind, but he hadn’t wanted to bring it up himself. “What do you suggest?”
“I think we should go back to the way we’ve always worked. It’s not that I’m trying to shirk my responsibility, it’s just that it makes more sense. What do you say, sir?”
“If you’re sure that’s the way you want it, I have no objection.”
Tregalles glanced across at Paget. “Like I said, sir, it’s not that I want to shirk my responsibilities; I could have done it if I were on my own, but with you here … Well, it changes things, doesn’t it? See what I mean?”
Paget smiled. “No need to worry on that score,” he said. “I have to admit, I’ve been wondering how well it would work ever since Alcott agreed to my coming down with you.”
“But you didn’t say anything.”
“Because I didn’t want you to think I was trying to take over. It’s your case; it had to be your decision.”
“What if I hadn’t brought it up?”
“But you did, didn’t you?”
Tregalles grinned. “In that case, welcome back, sir. And thanks.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. Glad to be back. Now, wipe that silly grin off your face and pay attention to your driving.”
Twenty minutes later, Paget was asleep. Best thing for him, Tregalles
thought, and fell to thinking about the information they had received in the past couple of days.
Responses had been varied to the initial RFI, but by the end of the day on Tuesday, several disturbingly similar killings had been reported, including one that had taken place in Hertfordshire eleven days after the attack on Paget. A young man by the name of Gerald White had been attacked and killed for no apparent reason as he was walking home late one evening. It was believed at least two people were involved in the attack, because his body had been carried or dragged some distance from where he was killed, and deposited inside the gate in front of his mother’s house. He had suffered an injury to his head, and his throat had been cut with a razor.
Until receiving the enquiry from Broadminster, nothing had been known of a telephone call to White’s mother, but when questioned again, she said yes, there had been such a call, but she’d been so distraught at the time that she had put it out of her mind. She couldn’t remember the exact words, only that the person had taunted her about the loss of her son.
From Bournemouth came the information that a nineteen-year-old girl by the name of Penelope Crofton had died in a similar manner in September, killed in her flat where she lived alone. Her body was discovered by her grandfather, a retired judge by the name of Harmer, who suffered a stroke shortly after talking to the police, and had since died without regaining consciousness. Once again, the weapon was believed to be a razor. The grandfather told the police he’d received a frantic telephone call from his granddaughter, pleading for him to help her, but she was cut off before he could reply, and was dead by the time he arrived.
Harmer told the police that within minutes of his finding his granddaughter, the telephone in her flat rang and kept on ringing. When he answered it, he said, someone had mocked him, saying it was his fault his granddaughter was dead. He hadn’t been able to recall the exact words, but he did remember the caller asking him how he felt about losing someone he loved.
Despite an intensive investigation into the girl’s background, no motive could be found, and no arrest had been made. But as far as Tregalles was concerned, a pattern was emerging. It now appeared that Penelope Crofton, Tessa Knowles, Olive Driscoll, and Gerald White had all been killed for the same reason: to cause pain and suffering to those closest to them. And in each case, those left behind appeared to be associated in some way with the courts. Harmer was a former judge; Driscoll was a QC; Braun was a psychologist who had worked on suspects’ profiles; Gerald White’s mother worked for the Prison Service; and then there was Paget himself.
Except in Paget’s case, the killer had been unable to find a victim whose death would cause him the same level of pain and suffering that had been inflicted on the others, so Paget himself had become the target.
There had been other reports, but they hadn’t quite matched the profile. From Southampton—no distance at all from Bournemouth—came the report of the death of a twenty-three-year-old prostitute by the name of Shirley Lampson. She had been killed in the back seat of a stolen car after being sexually assaulted in a place called Netley Marsh. Her throat had been cut with a thin-bladed weapon, although not, in the opinion of the pathologist, a razor. Lampson was known to the police, and known to have associated with a rough crowd, but no clear suspect had emerged thus far.
A twenty-one-year-old student by the name of Marjorie Williams, attending York University, had been attacked and slashed across the face as she was walking home one night late in September. However, it appeared that disfigurement rather than murder was the objective, and an ex-boyfriend was still being sought in connection with the attack.
And in Rotherham, Derbyshire, a twenty-eight-year-old woman by the name of Lydia Dalmer had been killed ten days ago. She’d been stabbed several times, and her head had been all but severed by a thin-bladed weapon, possibly a razor, although this was by no
means certain. Dalmer’s ex-husband was being sought in connection with the murder, and an early arrest was expected. Tragic as it was, until more information became available, this case, too, would be excluded.