Paget and Tregalles spent more than two hours in the interrogation room with Malone, but they couldn’t shake him; he insisted that he and Veronica Beresford had been seeing each other regularly for more than a year. He said she had been to his place on two or three occasions, but she preferred him to come to her when her husband was away overnight, which, according to Malone, was quite often.
When challenged to produce evidence of the liaison, he couldn’t. He insisted that in all that time they had never once appeared together in public. He claimed they had never gone out for a meal together, even in a distant town or city where neither of them were known.
“If what you say is true,” Tregalles said, “and Mrs. Beresford did visit your house from time to time, there must be some evidence: clothing, toiletries, make-up. Can you show us anything like that?”
Malone ran his hands through his hair in frustration. “There’s nothing!” he insisted. “I told you, Ronnie was only in my place a few
times, and she never stayed long. There was no need for her to leave anything behind.”
“So you’re saying she lied to me?” said Paget. “Why would she do that if the two of you were as close as you claim?”
Malone shook his head. “She must be afraid that Trevor will find out. That’s all I can think of. Let me talk to her. Let me explain how important it is.”
“How do you explain the fact that Mrs. Beresford says her husband was at home that night? And why would she say she had every intention of telling her husband about your allegations? She even suggested that she would urge him to take legal action against you.”
“No. She wouldn’t do that to me,” Malone declared. “She must have panicked when you went to see her. Said the first thing that came into her head. Let me talk to her. Please.”
“And all this time you say you were sleeping with Mrs. Beresford, you were preparing to marry Prudence Bolen,” said Tregalles. “Were you sleeping with her as well?”
“So what if I was?”
“And lying to her about where you’d been?”
Malone remained silent.
“As you’re lying now.”
“No! I’m telling you the truth!”
“The hell you are!” Tregalles snorted. “Jim Bolen stood in the way of your marrying into a rich family. Whose idea was it to kill him? Yours or his daughter’s? Was it she who supplied you with the keys to the Jag? Was it she who told you about her father having prostitutes up to his room? Was it your idea to pick up that young kid off the street and make it look as if she killed Bolen in a bedroom brawl?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Malone said desperately. “I’ve told you the truth! Look, I can describe the bedroom. I can tell you the colour of the duvet, the sheets, the pictures on the wall. I know Ronnie’s bedroom like the back of my hand.”
“Which you saw when you did the window-boxes,” said Paget.
“Not in detail,” Malone shot back. “I can tell you things I couldn’t possibly have seen in the short time I was in there doing the flowers. I’ll write them down, and you can check it out.”
“Tuesday night,” said Paget. “September twenty-sixth. You told me you left the Spencer house at ten o’clock, after delivering a load of trees. Mr. Spencer swears it wasn’t any later than half past nine.”
Malone shrugged wearily. “So?”
“So Simone was picked up sometime after ten. Where were you from ten o’clock on?”
“I went straight home and went to bed, and I don’t know anybody called Simone.”
“Who was with you that night, Malone? Prudence Bolen or Mrs. Beresford?”
Malone’s glare was malignant. “I was alone,” he grated.
“Whose car did you use that night?”
“I wasn’t using the car. I had the truck, remember.”
And so it went on, with Malone clinging stubbornly to his story. He insisted on being allowed to write down everything he could remember, including Ronnie Beresford’s tastes in night attire and lingerie.
They left him exhausted in the interview room, watched over by a uniformed constable. “What do you think?” asked Paget as he and Tregalles made their way back to the Incident Room.
Tregalles scratched his head. “The thing that bothers me the most is why he would invent such a story. It seems to me that he must have had something going with Mrs. Beresford, if not lately, possibly in the past. Maybe she is scared her husband will find out, and she lied to you.”
“If she did, she did a damned good job of it,” said Paget. “She seemed shocked by the suggestion that she and Malone were having
an affair; she gave every indication that she would tell her husband, and she couldn’t seem to understand what possessed Malone to tell such a story.”
“So one of them has to be lying,” Tregalles concluded, “but which one?”
Laura Bolen was tight-lipped as she put the phone down. So, the police had returned Dee’s car without a word of explanation. What had they hoped to find?
“They didn’t give me any reason,” Harry told her on the phone, “but the sergeant made it plain he didn’t believe I was at the office last Tuesday evening, and I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before they question me again. It’s no good, Laura. I’m going to have to tell them where I was, and the reason for keeping quiet. I know I promised not to, but I don’t have any choice. I’m going to talk to that man, Paget, in the morning. He seems like a decent chap; I’m sure he’ll understand.”
Laura wasn’t so sure about that. “In that case, I want to go with you,” she said firmly. “What about Dee? Are you going to tell her?”
“I don’t see that I have much choice. She hasn’t said anything, but I know she suspects that something is going on. I’ll have to tell her, but I know she won’t be happy.”
“In that case, promise me you won’t tell her until after you have talked to the police,” said Laura.
“Well … All right. I’ll phone Paget’s office first thing tomorrow morning, and I’ll let you know when he can see us.”
He’d hung up quickly, perhaps fearing that Laura might try to dissuade him.
Laura picked up the phone again and punched in a number. It rang twice and a female voice answered. “Mr. Lambert’s office.”
“I’d like to speak to Mr Lambert, please, Myrtle.”
“Oh, it’s you, Mrs. Bolen. I’m sorry, but Mr. Lambert won’t be
back until Friday. He left for London an hour ago. He has a meeting there tomorrow.”
“Oh, yes. I forgot. Do you know where he’s staying? Perhaps I can reach him there.”
“I’ll give you the number. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No, I’m afraid not; thanks just the same, Myrtle.”
“Very well, Mrs. Bolen. Ah, here it is. Do you have a pencil?”
Which one was lying? That was the question that kept gnawing away at the back of Paget’s mind as he drove home that night. Malone or Veronica Beresford? Pressure would have to be brought to bear on Mrs. Beresford, but that wasn’t going to be easy, especially if her husband backed up her story. Which wouldn’t necessarily mean she hadn’t been lying, but they would have to be very sure of their ground before taking that argument into court.
But his first priority tomorrow morning would be to visit the woman who had spent the night in the local nick with Julia Rutledge. The chances of her knowing where Rutledge might be were slim, but for the moment, at least, it looked like the only chance they had of tracing her.
He parked the car on the grass verge beneath a stand of trees. It was the same place he had parked the night before, just down the road from the pub. He switched off the lights and listened to the sound of rain. He could have done without that, but he’d come prepared. He pulled up the hood of the dark plastic raincoat, and stepped out of the car, pausing to listen, but all he could hear was the soft patter of rain.
He walked the short distance to the pub. There weren’t as many cars there tonight, and as he drew close to the window he could see that the place was half empty. The man who had answered the phone last night was there behind the bar, and so was Joanna, laughing at something one of the
patrons had said. He looked around the room but there was no sign of the girl. Since it seemed that she worked there, he felt reasonably sure that she would come again at the same time tonight. If not, he would have no choice but to go after her on the boat.
A VW mini-bus clattered into the car-park and pulled into a vacant space. He drew back into the shadows as four men piled out and ran toward the door of the pub, hopping and skipping to avoid the puddles. “Ten minutes, mind, no more,” said one of them. “It’s half nine already.”
“Yeah, yeah, we know, but there’s time for a quick one.”
Half nine. Time to be going.
It was comparatively dry beneath the arch of trees that overhung the path behind the pub. He needed the torch, although he used it sparingly just in case there was anyone else about. Not that it was likely, but there was no point in taking chances. Not when he was so close to eliminating the only person who might be able to identify him. He still wasn’t sure that Vikki had seen his face, but why take a chance? After tonight, there would be no way anyone could connect him to the murders. No way at all.
He reached the tow-path, and there ahead of him was the boat, its low black shape made visible only by the pale glow coming from the cabin window and a small light above the cabin door.
He drew back along the path to the place he’d picked out the night before, after following Joanna and Vikki from the pub. From beneath his coat he took out the short length of yellow rope with a wooden handle on each end and slipped the torch into his pocket. His eyes were becoming used to the darkness, and he could make out the boat more clearly now.
He waited.
The rain made brittle splashing noises as it hit the water of the canal, and a restless bird above him flapped its wings as if trying to dry them out. Faint sounds drifted through the trees—voices, muffled but distinct enough to tell they were calling out good-nights down at the pub. And then a sharp, insistent sound, someone who’d had a bit too much to drink, no doubt, playing silly buggers on the car-horn.
He thought he saw a movement aboard the boat. Yes! He gripped the home-made garrotte tightly and watched as the figure of a girl crossed the plank and stepped onto the path. She pulled up the hood of her mac and ducked her head against the rain, then started down the path. She was carrying something, but he couldn’t make out what it was.
He allowed her to pass his hiding place, then stepped out behind her. He heard her gasp as the rope went round her neck, heard her gag and choke as she dropped whatever it was she was carrying to claw desperately at her throat. He wrenched her head back and pulled, but she twisted round and rammed an elbow into his stomach. Hard! It caught him by surprise, and he lost his grip on the garrotte. He fumbled for it, but the girl wrenched it from his fingers and it flew into the darkness.
She almost slipped away, but he got an arm around her neck and dragged her toward the water. She struggled, but she was no match for him in a test of strength. He dragged her to the bank, pushed her to the ground, and slammed a fist into the side of her head. She went limp. He grabbed her legs and shoved her down the muddy bank, forcing her head under water. He held her there, counting …
He heard a noise behind him. Someone was coming along the path. He could see the light bobbing through the trees. He crouched down, using all his strength to keep the girl down. He must make sure this time. Make sure that she was dead!
“Hey!” someone shouted, and he realized that there was more than one person on the path, and they were almost on him. “What the hell … ?”
He let go of the girl’s legs and scrambled to his feet. She slid down the bank and disappeared beneath the rain-swept water as he turned and ran.
Damn those two men! Where had they come from, and why just then? Another minute and he could have made certain that the girl was dead. But she had to be dead. She hadn’t struggled when he held her down, and they would have to find her first. Even if they did manage to find her and get her out, she couldn’t possibly be alive. No one could live with their head under that muck.
But he wished he’d had a minute longer to be sure.
He cursed them roundly as he pounded along the sodden path, splashing through puddles, slipping and sliding on the wet grass and mud. His feet and legs were soaked, and he hated to think what his trousers looked like.
He must have gone half a mile before he saw the hump-backed bridge over the canal and the path leading from the bank up to the road. It hadn’t been used for years, and brambles tore at his clothes as he scrambled up the steep slope. He didn’t think anyone had followed him, but he didn’t dare slow down.
He reached the road and turned to the left. It should take him back to the road that ran past the pub, and to where he’d left the car. Thank God he’d parked it this side of the pub. But he’d have to hurry; someone had probably phoned the police by now.
The road was narrow, little more than a country lane winding between high grass banks, and the sooner he was off it, the better. But it was farther to the junction than he’d thought it would be; instead of running parallel to the Raddington Road, the canal must have veered to the north, and it was a good ten minutes before he saw the junction. He approached it cautiously and was about to round the corner when the distant wail of sirens stopped him. He drew back into the lane and crouched down beside the hedge. The sounds grew louder and burst upon him as two vehicles flashed by the end of the lane—a police car and an ambulance. Both stopped within seconds, which meant that the pub must be just down the road. He listened, but could hear nothing heralding the arrival of more police cars.
He stepped out into the road and ran the rest of the way. There were precious few places in which to hide, and he didn’t want to be trapped in someone’s headlights. He reached his car and scrambled in, then sat there shaking. He could see the flashing lights outside the pub farther down the road, but all the activity would be directed toward the canal, not back this way.
He had to get away before more police arrived. He started the car and
moved out cautiously from beneath the trees. Steady, he told himself as he made a three-point turn in the road. Easy does it. The last thing he needed was to be stopped by the police and asked why his clothes were torn and covered in mud.