“No one admits to seeing or hearing anything unusual, apart from those who were disturbed by that Rugby crowd tearing up and down the corridor on the fourth floor.”
Tregalles rubbed his eyes and squinted at his notebook. “Except for one thing,” he continued, “and I don’t know whether it means anything or not. A Mr. and Mrs. Lyon say they were returning to the hotel around midnight when they saw a girl sneaking into the hotel. They thought it a bit odd at the time, but decided it was none of their business, so they didn’t mention it to anyone until they were questioned this morning.”
“Did you get a description?”
Paget, Tregalles, and Superintendent Alcott were seated around a table in a vacant room on the first floor of the Tudor Hotel. Tregalles had commandeered the room as a temporary office from which to co-ordinate the enquiries in the hotel. The room was stuffy; both Paget and Tregalles were having trouble keeping their eyes
open, and Alcott’s chain-smoking didn’t help. Alcott himself had, for the most part, remained silent, his sharp eyes flicking from one to the other as he listened carefully.
Tregalles wrinkled his nose. “Not much of a one, I’m afraid. Young, fair-haired, slight build—that’s as much as they could remember. They said they only saw her for a few seconds, and for most of that time she had her back to them. The odd thing was, they say she had—”
“—bare feet?” Paget finished for him.
Tregalles stared at him. “How did you know that?” he demanded. “Did someone else see her, too?”
“Perhaps. Go on. What did this couple mean when they said they saw her ‘sneaking in’?”
“She went in ahead of them, but stopped just inside the door as if undecided about going further. According to Mrs. Lyon, she and her husband stopped and waited outside the door because they half expected the girl to turn round and come out again, but she didn’t. Instead, she took off her shoes and ran across to the stairs.”
“Go on.”
“That’s it. They discussed it on their way up in the lift, but decided that the girl had simply seen someone inside she didn’t want to meet, and had skipped up the stairs in order to avoid them.”
“Was anyone else in the lobby when they went through to the lift?”
“Just Quint, and Mrs. Jones.”
“You said it was around midnight. Before or after?”
“Within five minutes either way, they told me. They seemed quite sure about that.”
“Sounds like the same girl Quint claims he saw leaving the hotel at about twenty-five minutes to one,” Paget observed.
“Which ties in with the time of death and the evidence that there was a young woman in the room with Bolen,” said Alcott. “Looks straightforward enough to me. Bolen was having it off with this girl,
things got rough and she stabbed him.” The superintendent butted his cigarette and lit another.
“It ties in with the time the phone call came from Bolen’s room,” Paget agreed, “but we don’t know that this particular girl was ever in Bolen’s room. She may have nothing to do with this case at all, so I think we had better keep our options open. And time of death is still open until we can get medical confirmation. Unfortunately, Reg didn’t have a chance to give us any details before he had his heart attack, and when Charlie played Reg’s tape, he said he couldn’t make out the words because Reg was wheezing so heavily. He’s going to try to get it cleaned up electronically, but it may take some time. Meanwhile, we need another pathologist to do the autopsy as soon as possible.”
Alcott drummed stained fingers on the table. “I’ll talk to Worcester,” he said, “but let’s concentrate on finding this girl.”
“Those knickers in Bolen’s bed were small,” said Tregalles thoughtfully. “And the Lyons say the girl they saw was very young. She could be some schoolgirl who was making a bit on the side. Might be worth checking into; find out if Bolen was partial to youngsters. It would explain her sneaking in and out of the hotel like that.”
“Did Bolen make any phone calls?” Paget asked.
“Yes, he did, as a matter of fact.” Tregalles flipped the pages. “One. A Broadminster number at nine thirty-two P.M. I haven’t had a chance to follow it up yet, but the cross-reference listing shows it belongs to a Douglas Underwood, 54 Stirling Crescent.”
Alcott grunted. “That’s just down the road,” he observed. “Better talk to Underwood and find out what the call was about. Anything else?”
“Bolen’s car was in the car-park,” Tregalles told him. “Charlie had it taken away for further examination. And that’s about it, I’m afraid, sir.”
“Any further news on Reg’s condition?” asked Paget.
Tregalles grimaced. “Not good,” he said. “Charlie says they’re talking about an operation either later today or first thing tomorrow morning.”
Alcott shot an inquiring glance at Paget. “Anything else?” he demanded.
“It’s just that it seems to me Bolen’s death came at a very convenient time for his family,” Paget said slowly. “I don’t think we should overlook that possibility as a motive. If Bolen had been allowed to push this deal through at Ockrington, it could have ruined the lot of them.”
Alcott lumbered to his feet, scattering ash as he did so. “That’s as may be,” he said brusquely, “but let’s not go off a some wild-goose chase. Concentrate on finding the girl.”
As they left the room, Paget told Tregalles to remain in the hotel and interview the day staff. “And get some people round to the homes of everyone who has the day off. I want to know everything they can tell us about Bolen, and why he spent so many weekends here in the hotel. Find out what went on in the Elizabethan Room last night, and if we can get the names of diners who were seated near Jim Bolen, let’s have them interviewed as well.”
Tregalles nodded. “And you will be … ?”
“Having a word with Douglas Underwood.”
Leaving his car at the hotel, Paget walked the short distance to Stirling Crescent. It was a pleasant little backwater of semi-detached houses with small front lawns bordered by neatly trimmed hedges and low brick walls. Mature shrubs and bushes vied for space, with hydrangeas seemingly a particular favourite, and number fifty-four was no exception. Blooms the size of dinner plates grew in profusion beside the short driveway leading to the garage.
A plump middle-aged man, wearing a grey track suit and a pair of wellingtons, was stretched across the bonnet of a Granada Scorpio Estate, applying polish with sweeping strokes. What little hair
he had was light and sandy, and the skin beneath it glowed pink in the morning sun.
“Good morning, sir. Nice car,” said Paget admiringly. “Lovely colour.”
The man straightened up and beamed at Paget through rimless glasses. “That’s tourmaline metallic green, that is,” he said proudly. “Comes up a treat, doesn’t she?”
“She does indeed. Are you by any chance Mr. Underwood? Mr. Douglas Underwood?”
The man’s smile faded. “I am,” he said neutrally. “And you are … ?”
“Detective Chief Inspector Paget. I wonder if I could have a few minutes of your time?”
Underwood’s face took on a guarded look. “Chief Inspector?” he repeated. He glanced at the car as if trying to think of an infraction serious enough to warrant the time of a chief inspector on a Sunday morning. “What’s this all about?” he asked cautiously.
“Routine enquiries,” said Paget vaguely. “I’d just like to ask you a few questions. We can do that here, or we could go into the house if you prefer.”
“No. No, this will be fine.” Underwood picked up the bottle of liquid polish, screwed the cap on carefully, and wiped his hands on a piece of cloth. “What’s it about?” he asked again.
“Tell me, were you at home last evening, sir?”
Underwood hesitated. “Y-e-e-s,” he answered cautiously.
“Did you receive a telephone call from a Mr. James Bolen?”
Underwood opened his mouth, closed it again and said, “Aahhh!”
“Was that a yes or a no, sir?”
“Well, yes, I did, now that you mention it.” Underwood looked down at the bottle in his hand, unscrewed the cap, then screwed it back on again.
“Would you mind telling me the substance of that conversation, sir?”
“It was … It was a private matter,” the man said stiffly.
Paget shook his head. “Not any longer, I’m afraid. Mr. Bolen died shortly after making that telephone call to you, which is why I’m here.”
Underwood looked stunned. “He died? What happened?”
“The telephone call?” Paget prompted.
“Ah, yes, well … He-umm …” Underwood swallowed hard and looked down at the bottle in his hand. “He offered me—aahh—a job,” he said in a low voice.
“I see. You are unemployed at the moment, are you, Mr. Underwood?”
The man looked up sharply. “No, of course not. I have a good job.”
“Working for Lambert?”
Colour flared in Underwood’s face. “How … ?” he began, then compressed his lips as if to prevent himself from saying more.
“How did I know you worked for Lambert? I didn’t until I saw the Lambert logo on your car,” said Paget. His voice hardened. “Now, you say Bolen offered you a job. What sort of job? And why did he wait until late on a Saturday evening to make you that offer?”
Underwood looked down at his hands, brows drawn together as if studying them. “The job was … well, it was just part of it,” he said in a low voice. “What he really wanted was information about the bid we are putting in on a job. He said he was prepared to pay for the information, but of course I turned him down.”
“I see. Was that job, by any chance, the one at Ockrington?”
Underwood looked startled. Sweat glistened on his brow as he nodded confirmation.
“And you say you turned him down?”
Underwood looked offended by the question. “Well, it wouldn’t have been right, would it? I mean, I’m not saying I couldn’t have used the money; I could, but there’s such a thing as loyalty, isn’t there?”
“Very commendable, I’m sure,” said Paget. “Tell me, was this the first time Bolen had approached you?”
Underwood shifted from one foot to the other, then shook his head. “He has approached me a couple of times in the past, but I turned him down each time.”
“No doubt you informed your employer of these approaches by Bolen?”
“Well, no. I mean, what would have been the point? As I said, I turned Bolen down, so there was no harm done.”
“Was that the only reason, sir? Or were you, perhaps, waiting for a better offer?”
“Of course not!”
Paget left it for the moment as another thought occurred to him. Harry Bolen had said that his brother was not in his room, nor was he anywhere in the hotel as far as he could tell, and Underwood’s house was only a short distance away. “Did Mr. Bolen come to see you after you turned him down?” he asked.
“Certainly not.”
“Did you go to see him or meet him somewhere?”
“No.” The answer came swiftly—a bit too swiftly, Paget thought.
“Did he say anything that might indicate he intended to go out, or that he was expecting anyone?”
“No.”
“How did he react when you turned him down?”
“He offered me more money, tried to talk me round, but I kept telling him I wasn’t interested, so he finally gave up.” Underwood shot a questioning glance at Paget. “What was it?” he asked. “Heart attack? Something like that?”
“Oh, didn’t I say, Mr. Underwood? He was assaulted and killed in his room.”
Underwood’s eyes widened and his jaw went slack as he stared at Paget. He made as if to say something, but couldn’t seem to get the words out. “When?” he croaked.
Paget regarded him with an air of surprise. “Now, why do you ask that?” he said. “Is the time of particular significance?”
Underwood shook his head violently. “No! No, it was just that … I mean, I was speaking to him on the phone … Well, as you say, it must have happened after that. That’s all I meant.”
“I see. Tell me, is there anyone who can confirm where you were last evening, Mr. Underwood?”
Underwood shook his head. “I live alone,” he said, “but I can assure you I never left the house last night. You’ll just have to take my word for it.”
“And so I shall,” said Paget agreeably. “At least for now. But someone will call you to arrange a time for your written statement. Thank you for your help.”
Simone slept late. It was almost three o’clock on Sunday afternoon when she finally opened her eyes. She reached blindly for her cigarettes and lit one, then propped herself up in bed so she wouldn’t go back to sleep and set the place on fire.
The taste in her mouth was foul. She’d been picked up just after midnight by a very young man who had taken her to a house where a stag party was in progress. She was to be a present, he said, to his friend, who was getting married the following week. “He’s a virgin,” he explained seriously, “so we thought he should have a sort of trial run so he doesn’t make a fool of himself on the big night.”
Virgin be damned! If that guy was a virgin, then she was a Sister of Charity. She pitied the poor girl he was marrying.
She listened. Not a sound came from the other room. Vikki must have come in late and still be sleeping. Which meant she must have been working. And a good thing, too! It was about time she started paying her way.
Simone finished her cigarette. She was tempted to snuggle down again, but if she wasn’t on the street again by seven, Luke
would be round to find out why, and she had some washing and ironing to do before then.
“Vikki?” she called as she got out of bed. “Come on, luv. Your turn to get dinner.” But when she went into the living-room, there was no sign of the girl. The sheets and blankets were still neatly folded at the end of the sofa, exactly as they had been when Simone had gone to bed.
Simone frowned. The last time she had seen Vikki was when she’d said she was going to Lee’s to get warm, but that had been around eight o’clock last night.
“Oh, no!” Simone groaned aloud. “Not again!”
The coppers had been on the prowl again last night. Vikki had mentioned it herself. Sure as hell, she’d been picked up. Simone sighed. The girl wasn’t cut out for this at all. She simply didn’t have it.
Simone cleaned her teeth while waiting for the bathtub to fill. She wasn’t going to bail the kid out again, she told herself. Vikki could stay there. Perhaps it would teach her to be more careful next time. If there was a next time.
It was only later, when Simone was preparing to go out again, that she discovered Vikki’s clothes rolled up inside the wardrobe. The same clothes she’d been wearing when she’d gone to Lee’s. So what was she wearing now? Swiftly, Simone went through the clothing in the wardrobe and the drawers. Her black dress was missing; so was her evening bag. What else had the thieving little bitch made off with?
Simone lit another cigarette and stood there in the middle of the room, trying to make sense of it all. Why, of all things, her black dress? It would look like a sack on Vikki. So why had she taken it? And where had she gone dressed like that?