Had Mary Carr been innocent? Had Gillanne been telling the truth? Or had she lied to save her mother? Had Mary coached her daughter? Was that why Mary had held Gillanne so close while she was being questioned? Alternatively, had Gillanne killed her stepfather, then made up the story about a man being in the house? But if that was true, why hadn’t she said so in the note she left behind? These and other questions crowded into Paget’s mind, but the biggest question of all was: What had driven the girl to take her own life? She’d said in her note that it was because no one believed she was telling the truth, but there had to be more to it than that.
Michael had to be considered as well, although there was nothing to suggest that he had been involved; in fact, he had seemed almost oblivious of what was going on around him.
Paget rubbed his face with his hands. He was going round in circles. What mattered now was finding Mary Carr.
Using the resources of the Met, he had checked the date of
Gillanne’s death, and found that he was right. The girl had killed herself the day after the West End bombing in which seventeen people were killed and dozens injured. Consequently, the death of a single child hadn’t received much attention from the media or the police.
Together, Paget and DI Wallace had gone over the letters Mary had sent to her mother, but they were of little value. All but one—the one postmarked Poole—had been posted from various places in the Midlands, with no return address. She might as well have used postcards for all the information they contained. They all said roughly the same thing: It’s me again, Mum. How are you? I’m fine. Keeping busy. Not much to tell at the moment, but I’ll write more later. Love, Mary. No mention of where she was, what she was doing, or whether Michael was with her. It was as if Mary knew, or at least suspected, that the police might one day be reading them.
She had never written much more than that, but Bellamy had obtained an order to intercept mail addressed to Edith Chambers, and a warrant had been obtained to monitor her phone calls, and round-the-clock surveillance was set up on the house.
As for Michael Carr, a computer search turned up the information that he was known to the police in Lambeth. According to their records, Michael had first come to their attention when he was fifteen. He had run away from a foster home and joined a local band of tearaways. He was regarded by the police as non-violent but easily led, more of a hanger-on than a true member. He’d been involved in petty crimes, shoplifting, joyriding, theft from cars, and things of that nature, but nothing major as far as was known.
As to his present whereabouts, they had no idea. There had been nothing on his record for the past nine months, which was unusual, they said, because Michael was not the brightest star in the heavens, and was easily caught.
The last nine months. His mother had been released from prison in April. A check with the prison authorities showed that Michael
had visited his mother in prison on a number of occasions, the last being a week before her release, which strengthened Paget’s belief that the two of them could be working together.
Edith Chambers had been a regular visitor. Twice a month, year in, year out. She denied knowing anything about Michael, where he was or what he was doing, and insisted that she had not seen him since he’d been taken away by Social Services.
Paget didn’t believe her, and neither did Bellamy.
Len Ormside shuffled through the pictures of Mary Carr that Paget had sent through on the fax machine. Three of them were prison pictures: full front face, left and right profiles. The rest had been modified and enhanced by computer. Subtle changes had been made. In some pictures she had short hair, in others long, each done in several different styles, and the harsh shadows had been softened. It might not have been Mary Carr who had called on Paget’s housekeeper, but the age and description she had given Molly Forsythe were close enough to make it worth checking.
Ormside faxed the photographs to Bristol, asking them to have Mrs. Wentworth see if she recognized the woman who had called on her, purporting to be doing a survey. The pictures were all numbered, and, assuming it was Mary Carr who had come to the house, he asked Bristol to have Mrs. Wentworth choose the photograph that most closely resembled her appearance now.
He could tell by the way Audrey was stacking the plates for washing up that she was annoyed. Audrey wasn’t given to moods, but she certainly hadn’t been pleased when he told her his application for extra leave at Christmas had been turned down.
“It’s just that with this woman on the loose, it’s all hands on deck, Christmas or not,” he explained. “I mean I did ask, but we’re short-handed, and …”
“Seems to me that’s always the excuse,” Audrey muttered as she turned on the water. “And I don’t see why young Ron King from down the road can get time off at Christmas, and you can’t. I met his mother in Sainsbury’s the other day, and she was telling me that Ron and that new wife of his are off to Spain for a week at Christmas. Casa something-or-other. Supposed to be the best there is, according to her. He doesn’t seem to have any trouble getting time off, and he’s only been there three years, if that.”
“Ron King? Spain? On his pay? Never! Not unless he’s got some fiddle going on the side.”
Audrey clucked her tongue impatiently. “His mother’s paying for it,” she told him. “Why do you think she went out of her way to tell me? It isn’t as if we know them very well, is it? She just wanted to make a point. Anyway, all I’m saying is, he got time off, but you with all your seniority can’t get time off, and I don’t understand why. God knows you’ve got enough time owing.”
“Well, yes, but that’s different, isn’t it? I mean, he’s uniforms. There’s more of them to go round. Besides, I’ll be having the four days off.”
“But you’ll be going back on the Wednesday, just when we could have all gone round together.”
“Well, it’s only Lilian who’ll be here, isn’t it? Philip will be in Shrewsbury all day doing whatever it is he does for the BBC, so you can take Lilian round. Be nice for you and the kids. Be better, really. The two of you can have a good natter.”
Audrey scowled as she pulled on rubber gloves and plunged her hands into the hot water. “I really think you could have tried a bit harder to get leave,” she grumbled. “I mean, I know you’re not all that keen on Philip, but he’ll be off in Shrewsbury most of the time, and it’s not as if you and Lilian don’t get on, is it? When I spoke to
her on the phone the other night, she said she was looking forward to seeing you again. She’ll be ever so disappointed.”
“As will I, love,” Tregalles said earnestly, “but you know how it is when duty calls. I mean, how do you think I’d feel if this madwoman had another go at Paget while I was off on holiday? No, sorry, love, but it wouldn’t be right, would it?”
“Well, put that way, I suppose you’re right,” Audrey conceded grudgingly, “but they’d better not do this to you again, or I’ll be having a word with Mr. Alcott myself.”