Back in the office, Molly sought out Tregalles and told him about her conversation with the Reverend Phillips. ‘The trouble is,’ she concluded, ‘all it tells us is that Billy Travis, Gavin Whitelaw and Mike Fulbright knew each other back when this picture was taken. And Whitelaw went to see Fulbright a couple of days before he died, but I don’t know if that’s significant or not. Did you get anything out of Fulbright this morning?’
‘No. He’s sticking to his story about Whitelaw talking about trading in his car, and says Whitelaw must have been playing some sort of bizarre game. He even suggested that Whitelaw had committed suicide and wasn’t murdered at all.’
‘With his hands bound and an A carved in his forehead?’ said Molly. ‘That’s a bit of a stretch, isn’t it? Could Fulbright be our killer?’
‘I suppose it’s possible,’ Tregalles said slowly. ‘He’s big enough and strong enough. But those killings were planned very carefully, and Fulbright doesn’t strike me as a planner. He strikes me as the sort who makes it up as he goes along. Like this morning. I know he was lying, but he’d made up that story and he’s sticking with it. He claims he was at home in bed on the nights all three men were killed, and says his wife will confirm that. Another possibility is that he’s a potential victim, because I know I hit a nerve when I mentioned Moreland and Travis. He tried to hide it, but he’s definitely worried about something.’
‘So, what’s next?’ Molly asked. ‘I haven’t seen DCI Paget today. Is he away?’
‘No, he’s here,’ Tregalles told her, ‘but it looks as if he’s going to be spending more time upstairs until DS Pierce gets up to speed.’
Molly pushed her chair back and stood up. ‘In that case,’ she said, ‘I think we should go and talk to Mrs Fulbright about her husband’s alibi, and find out if Fulbright’s father can identify the rest of the people in the photograph of the choir.’
‘You really think there’s a connection?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Molly, ‘but it’s all we’ve got at the moment, so why don’t we go and find out?’
‘Can’t,’ Tregalles said. ‘At least not until tomorrow morning. Ormside’s away this afternoon. Dental appointment, so I’m filling in for him. But I could use your help. I’m behind on my daily reports, and Paget’s not too pleased about that, so would you do me a favour and transcribe them for me? I’ve got three days of notes to write up, and you can type a hell of a lot faster than me.’
Connie Rice looked at the clock for perhaps the tenth time in the last five minutes. Her feet were killing her, and all she wanted to do was go home and crawl into bed. She hated to admit it, but the decision to buy the new shoes had been a bad one, and an expensive one as well. Even worse was her decision to wear them to work. They’d looked so neat in the shop, and she’d felt so sure that they would be all right once they’d been worn a bit, but she was wrong on all counts. She could have taken them off while she was serving behind the bar, but she was afraid she wouldn’t get them on again. Besides, she was short enough as it was, which was why she’d been tempted to buy three-inch heels in the first place.
She looked at the clock again. Twenty more minutes to go. She could have gone half an hour ago for all the trade there was. Old George Peacock was still there in his corner. A mate of his from the residence up the road had just left, but not George. George would be there until he was walked to the door by Vic, and gently but firmly pushed out into the night. The ten or twelve members of the family who had been celebrating some sort of lottery win had gone, and the couple who’d been drinking shorts all night were getting up to leave.
Her thoughts skipped to the man who had come in just after ten. A stranger, broad-shouldered, good looking, who’d propped himself up at the end of the bar and started chatting to her. Fortyish, smartly dressed; grey roll-neck pullover and dark slacks. Longish hair that could do with a bit of a trim, but it looked good on him, so forget the trim. Nicely spoken, too. Didn’t sound like he was local. Chatted a bit about the weather to start with, then on to a few comments about the place. Commented on the silver charm bracelet she wore. Asked her if she’d worked there long, and she’d begun to think she was in with a chance. He seemed so nice, and it had been such a long time since she’d had a real date.
He’d stayed for about an hour, drinking halves, then looked at his watch and said he had to go. ‘I enjoyed talking to you,’ he’d told her as he set his glass down, and she’d held her breath, expecting – or at least hoping – that he would ask her for a date. Instead, he’d shrugged into his coat, wished her goodnight, and left.
Connie winced as she shifted from one foot to the other and looked at the clock again. The hands had hardly moved at all. Oh, to hell with it! She should just go. She began to undo her apron, then stopped. It would mean an argument with Rick, and you could never win with him. As far as Rick Crowley was concerned, her hours were five till midnight. The place could be empty, but that wouldn’t make a scrap of difference to him, so why risk the hassle for the sake of a few minutes? She’d thought he would cut her a bit of slack after she’d slept with him a few times, but business was business and pleasure was something else as far as Rick was concerned.
‘Better get those glasses stacked if you want to get off on time, Connie,’ he called from the other end of the bar. It was as if he had been reading her thoughts. ‘Up yours!’ she muttered beneath her breath as she picked up the glasses.
Midnight at last. Connie hobbled into the office to get her coat. It had been raining on and off throughout the evening, so she put on a plastic rain hat and tied it loosely before stepping out into the night. The rain had almost stopped, but Connie hurried along the gravelled path to her car. It was parked at the very end of the small car park under the trees. Normally it would be the only one there at this time of night, but tonight there was another one just a few yards away from her own. She wondered about it in a vague sort of way as she swept leaves from the windscreen before getting in, but she was so anxious to get home and put her feet up that it didn’t really register. She was opening the door when she heard the sound of a footstep on gravel behind her. Suddenly fearful, she started to turn. She caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. She opened her mouth to scream . . . Her head seemed to explode; she fell against the car, and her legs buckled beneath her.
The sky had cleared overnight. The temperature had dropped dramatically, and there was a hint of frost in the air, but the sun was shining and it was a beautiful morning.
‘Seems like you’re always driving into the sun this time of the year, no matter which way you’re going,’ Tregalles grumbled as a shard of light half blinded him when he turned into the driveway leading to Fulbright’s house. ‘Just look at that, will you? Look at that house. I always knew there had to be good money in cars, but I wouldn’t have thought a sales manager could afford something like this.’
‘Rachel Fulbright has money,’ Molly told him. ‘Have you not heard of her? She’s quite well known for her metal sculptures, and there’s an example.’ She pointed to a free-standing sculpture of a tree, its limbs bare and graceful as it might appear in winter. ‘Didn’t you notice the one on the sign at the bottom of the drive as well? This is called Beech Tree House.’
‘Can’t say I did,’ Tregalles said as they got out of the car. ‘Not exactly my thing, metal sculpture. Audrey likes it, but it doesn’t do a thing for me. Half the stuff I’ve seen looks like the leftovers from a scrap iron merchant, and they charge the earth for it.’
It was a big house. There was nothing particularly notable about it, other than its size, but in this part of town on this amount of land, it had to be worth a lot of money. Red brick, two storeys. Probably something like four or five bedrooms. The very tall chimney stacks were an odd feature, and yet they seemed to go with the house. Tregalles mounted the two shallow steps to the front door and rang the bell. Chimes sounded faintly inside, but there was no response. Tregalles pressed the bell again.
Molly stood back from the house, head on one side, listening. ‘Hear that?’ she asked. ‘Hear that banging?’
Tregalles came down to stand beside her, listening. ‘Back of the house,’ he said. ‘Let’s take a look.’ He led off with Molly following.
There was a large, square, brick building, half hidden by a stand of trees on the far side of the lawn and tennis court behind the house, and the sound of hammering was coming from inside. There was no point in knocking, so Tregalles tried the door and found it unlocked. He poked his head inside, then pushed the door open and stepped over the sill. Molly moved in behind him and closed the door.
A slim figure in overalls and goggles was hammering away at a piece of red hot iron on an anvil. Tregalles and Molly moved closer. ‘Mrs Fulbright?’ Tregalles called loudly, trying to time it between strokes. The woman kept on hammering. ‘Are you Mrs Fulbright?’ he called louder.
‘Yes, I’m Rachel Fulbright, and I heard you the first time,’ she shouted back, ‘but whatever you want will have to wait a minute. I can’t leave this now.’
It was a full five minutes before the woman set the hammer aside, then took off the goggles, and wiped the sweat from her forehead on the sleeve of her overalls. ‘You don’t look like Seventh-Day Adventists or Mormons,’ she said, squinting at them, ‘so what do you want?’
Tregalles and Molly took out their warrant cards and displayed them. ‘A few questions, if you don’t mind?’ Tregalles said.
‘Ah, yes, Mike did say someone would be round to check up on him. Good idea. He needs checking up on from time to time. Shall we go outside? I’m sweating like a pig.’
Once outside, Rachel Fulbright led them to a metal bench. She unzipped the front of her overalls and flapped them about a bit before sitting down. ‘That’s better,’ she said with a sigh, motioning for them to sit down as well. ‘Now, what is it Mike’s supposed to have done, and I’m supposed to say he couldn’t possibly have done it because he was with me all day?’
‘That’s not quite the way it works, Mrs Fulbright,’ Molly said gently. ‘We do prefer the answers to be truthful.’
Rachel Fulbright smiled crookedly. She was an attractive woman, not much older than Molly herself. ‘Now there’s a novel idea,’ she said, ‘but I’ll give it a try. What’s the question?’
Tregalles gave her the times and dates of the murders. ‘And Mr Fulbright told us you can confirm that he was at home in bed in all three cases,’ he concluded.
‘Did he, now?’ Rachel pursed her lips and looked thoughtful. ‘He may have been,’ she said after a long pause. ‘But then again, he may not. I take it he didn’t mention our sleeping arrangements?’
Tregalles and Molly exchanged glances.
‘No, I see by the expression on your faces he didn’t,’ she continued. ‘What I can tell you is that he went to bed as usual on those nights, and he was there again in the morning. But we have separate bedrooms, and I sleep very soundly, so I never know which nights he remains there and which nights he pops over to sleep with his secretary and receptionist, Anita Chapman. It depends on whether or not her husband is home, so you may have to talk to her as well. Was there anything else?’
‘I’d appreciate it if you would treat this more seriously, Mrs Fulbright,’ Tregalles said stiffly. ‘Three people have been murdered in a particularly brutal way, and we do need to know where your husband was on those nights.’
‘Do you really think Mike had something to do with those murders?’ she asked, then shook her head vigorously and said, ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant, but the very idea struck me as so utterly preposterous that I couldn’t take it seriously.’
‘Preposterous or not, I would still like a proper answer, Mrs Fulbright.’
Rachel pursed her lips. ‘What were those dates again?’ she asked. Tregalles read them off. ‘I don’t know about the others,’ she said slowly, ‘but the last ones, the nineteenth and twentieth – Wednesday night and Thursday morning, right? Mike was here. Well, to be honest, he was out of it, but his body was here. We had some people in Wednesday evening, and they didn’t leave until around one o’clock, and it must have been close to two before we got to bed. As I said, we have separate rooms, but he’d been drinking steadily throughout the evening, and I had to help him to bed. He was asleep the moment he hit the bed, so there’s no way he could have gone out and killed Gavin Whitelaw.’
‘You’re prepared to swear to that, if necessary, Mrs Fulbright?’ Tregalles asked.
‘If necessary,’ she said tightly.
‘Did you know Gavin Whitelaw?’
Rachel Fulbright eyed Tregalles in a calculating way before she answered. ‘I knew who he was,’ she said carefully, ‘but he was by no means a friend, if that’s what you’re after. He and Mike knew each other from the time they were at school together, but Mike didn’t like the man, and he did his best to avoid him. But disliking a man is a far cry from killing him,’ she ended.
Molly took out her notebook. ‘These friends you had in last week,’ she said, ‘could you give me one or two names?’
‘Is this really necessary?’ Rachel asked icily.
‘If we are to eliminate your husband from a list of possible suspects, yes, it is, Mrs Fulbright.’
‘I’ll give you two, but there’s no need to go into detail regarding why you want the information, so for God’s sake try to be discreet.’
‘Just one more thing, Mrs Fulbright,’ said Molly after jotting down the names. ‘I understand that Mr Fulbright’s father is living with you. No one answered when we rang the bell, so could you tell me where we might find him?’
‘He’ll be in his room,’ Rachel said. ‘Probably had his radio on and didn’t hear the chimes. Why do you want to talk to him? He can’t tell you if Mike was home or not; his room is at the other end of the hall.’
‘It’s about another matter,’ Molly told her.
Rachel continued to look at her as if expecting further elaboration, but when Molly remained silent, she reached into a pocket of the overalls and pulled out a phone, and thumbed in a number. ‘He’s a bit slow these days,’ she said, not unkindly. ‘Oh, hello, Theo? There’s someone here to see you. Can you come down? We’re on the seat outside the workshop. It’s the police. They want to ask you some questions.’ There was a pause, then, ‘No, it’s not about your driving licence.’ She cupped a hand over the phone. ‘He wants to know what it’s about,’ she said.
‘It’s a question we have about some of the people who were in the All Saints choir fifteen or more years ago,’ Molly told her. She took out the picture and held it up for Rachel to see.
Rachel relayed the information, then closed the phone. ‘He says you can go up, but he’s in the middle of a delicate operation, so he wants you to wait outside the door of his room until he tells you to come in. As I said, his room is at the end of the hall, and it will be open.’ She slipped the phone back into the pocket of her overalls and got to her feet. ‘I have to get back to work,’ she said brusquely, ‘but since you are the police, I suppose I can trust you not to steal the silver. The back door’s open, so go through the kitchen and the hall and to the top of the stairs and follow the sound of the radio.’ She turned to go, then paused. ‘And please don’t go poking around in other parts of the house. I do know you need a warrant for that.’
They could hear the radio before they reached the top of the stairs. They turned to the right, followed the sound to an open door at the end of the hall and stopped as ordered. An elderly man, wearing corduroy trousers and a stained white smock, was seated at a trestle table. On his balding head was a magnifying visor with light attached. It was focused on something very small, held in the grip of tiny pincers on the end of a prosthetic arm, while in his right hand was a very small paintbrush. But, fascinating as that was, Molly’s attention was drawn to the three beautiful doll’s houses sitting on three separate tables.
‘With you in a minute,’ Theodore Fulbright called loudly without looking up. ‘Just stay where you are.’
Two of the small houses were closed, but the third, a two-storeyed house with furnished attic, was open and lighted. ‘Now that is beautiful,’ Molly breathed. Tregalles followed her gaze. ‘It is,’ he agreed. ‘Olivia had one when she was small. Nothing like that, of course, but the same idea. I made a few bits and pieces for her, but she didn’t really appreciate it, in fact I spent more time with it than she did, so it ended up in the gift shop. Too bad, because I quite enjoyed working on it.’
The Reverend Fulbright sat back in his chair and took off the visor, then turned the radio off. ‘Come in, come in and tell me what it is you want,’ he said. ‘I have to wait a few minutes for the paint to dry.’
‘What are you working on?’ Molly asked with a nod toward the table.
‘A stained glass window for the front door,’ Fulbright replied. ‘You can buy them, but I prefer to do my own. Are you interested?’
‘I’ve always loved doll’s houses,’ Molly confessed, ‘but I’d never have the time to work on them. But this one’s beautiful.’ She pointed to the house that was open. ‘Mind if I have a closer look?’
‘Not at all.’ The tone of his voice was considerably softer as he got to his feet. He raised his left arm to display the prosthesis with the claw-like pincers where a hand should have been. ‘Does this bother you?’ he asked. ‘It does some people.’
Both detectives shook their heads, and he said, ‘Good. It is interchangeable for a hand, of course, but this is what I use when I’m working. It was specially made for the work.’
Despite Tregalles’s sidelong glances and shuffling signs of impatience, Molly spent the next few minutes examining the interior of the doll’s house. ‘Did you make everything in here?’ she asked.
‘Almost,’ Fulbright said. ‘Never found a way to make a light bulb, but I made just about everything else.’
‘It’s gorgeous,’ Molly said, straightening up after a not so gentle nudge from Tregalles. ‘You do beautiful work, Reverend Fulbright.’
He shrugged modestly, but it was evident he was pleased. ‘And I prefer people to call me Theo now that I’m retired. And you are . . .?’
‘Sorry,’ Molly said guiltily as she produced her warrant card and introduced herself, and Tregalles. ‘We’re investigating the deaths of Billy Travis and Gavin Whitelaw,’ she explained. ‘Both were in the All Saints choir years ago, and we wondered if you could put names to the people in this old photograph of the choir.’ She took out the picture once again and handed it to Fulbright.
He took the photo in his right hand and studied it.
‘There’s my son, Michael,’ he said. ‘Can’t miss him, can you? He was tall for his age even then. Oh, yes, there’s young Billy. Poor little devil. He was still there in the choir when I left. Still is, for that ma—’ He stopped abruptly. ‘I mean was,’ he said quietly. ‘When I read about him being killed, I couldn’t believe it! Any idea yet who did it?’ His eyes flicked from one to the other, then returned to the picture when both remained silent.
‘That’s Meg Bainbridge,’ he said, tapping the picture. ‘She’s still there. In fact she’s one of the few originals. The chap on the end is Fairfield, the choirmaster back then.’ He indicated a heavy-set, balding man in the back row. Fulbright went on to name every one of the adults in the back row, but said they’d been gone for years. ‘Trasler is dead, and Mary Monahan and her husband were living in Spain last time I heard, but that was a few years ago. I still see Preston in church from time to time, so you could try him.’ Fulbright didn’t sound too hopeful. ‘As for the rest, I don’t know if they’re still around or not, but I haven’t seen them lately. And as for the youngsters . . . I don’t know. They came and went; I don’t remember their names.’
‘What about this one?’ Molly pointed to Whitelaw. Fulbright looked closely. ‘The face is vaguely familiar,’ he said, ‘but I don’t remember the name.’
He started to hand the picture back, but his hand suddenly shook and the picture dropped to the floor. ‘Sorry,’ he said brusquely as Molly stooped quickly to pick it up. ‘Careless of me. Is that it, then?’
‘Can you tell us when this picture was taken?’ Molly asked.
‘Judging by how old Michael looks, I’d say it’s at least fifteen or sixteen years old,’ he said. ‘But what does this have to do with Billy Travis’s death?’
‘To be honest, sir, it may have nothing to do with it,’ Molly confessed, ‘but the killings appear to have a common motive, and the only connection we’ve found so far is that two of the victims were in the choir when they were teenagers, and both had pictures of the choir in their possession. The latest victim, Gavin Whitelaw, was also a friend of your son.’
‘Michael?’ Fulbright said sharply. ‘How does he come into it? Have you spoken to him?’
‘I have,’ Tregalles said. ‘Whitelaw went to see your son shortly before he was killed, and we had hoped he might have said something that would help us, but Michael claims the only reason Whitelaw was there was to talk about trading his car for a newer one.’
Fulbright’s eyes narrowed. ‘Unless I misjudged your tone, Sergeant, I get the distinct impression that you didn’t believe him.’
‘Let’s just say that it’s hard to believe that story when we know Whitelaw didn’t have a car to trade. In fact he sold it months ago, and he was in no position to even consider buying a car, old or new.’
‘Is the name Dennis Moreland familiar to you, sir?’ Molly broke in quickly before Fulbright had a chance to respond. ‘Do you recall if he was ever in the choir?’
‘Couldn’t tell you, I’m afraid. Youngsters rarely stayed long. They’d come in keen as mustard, but then either their voices would break or they’d get bored, and they’d be off again. Is he in the picture?’
‘His wife says he isn’t, but I thought it was worth asking anyway,’ Molly said. ‘I don’t suppose you have any other old photographs of the choir tucked away somewhere?’
Fulbright shook his head. ‘I presume you’ve spoken to Peter Jones?’
‘The present choirmaster? No, not yet,’ said Molly. ‘The Reverend Phillips thought you might be our best bet, since Mr Jones hasn’t been here very long and the previous choirmaster has moved away. But perhaps you can give us the names you do remember, and we can contact them to see if they can help us.’
Fulbright shook his head. ‘Memory’s not what it used to be,’ he said. ‘Try Michael. He might know. Or Peter Jones. Failing that, I suppose you could try tracking Fairfield down.’
Fulbright walked back to stand behind the table. ‘Sorry I can’t be of more help,’ he said, ‘but I really must get on with this, so perhaps you can find your own way out.’
‘Just one question, if you don’t mind, sir,’ Molly said as Tregalles headed for the door. ‘What happens to the doll’s houses when they’re finished?’
Fulbright picked up the magnifier visor and slipped it over his head. ‘They go to various charities for auction,’ he said. ‘The one you were looking at is going to Manchester next month to be auctioned off at a charity event there.’ He smiled. ‘You could put in a bid if you like.’ He snapped on the light and settled into his seat. ‘But you’d better have deep pockets,’ he called after her as she went out the door. ‘The reserve price is fifteen hundred pounds.’
‘Connie not in tonight, then, Rick?’ The middle-aged man wearing a flat cap and tweeds was a regular in the Red Lion. ‘I thought Sunday and Monday were her nights off. Not poorly, is she?’ He sounded quite concerned.
‘She’ll be more than bloody poorly when I get hold of her,’ Rick Crowley growled. ‘Gone half five and no sign of her. I must have rung ten times, but she’s not answering. The girl she shares a flat with said she didn’t come home last night, so God knows where she is.’
‘Not like her, though, is it?’ the man said. ‘I mean if there’s one thing you can say about Connie, she’s reliable.’
‘Not tonight, she bloody isn’t,’ Crowley growled. ‘All right, all right, I’m coming,’ he called to the man at the other end of the bar, who was waving money about. He looked at the clock again and swore beneath his breath.
Six o’clock. Home at a decent time for a change. Molly dropped her handbag on the hall table, shrugged out of her coat and hung it up, then carried the shopping bag containing her dinner into the kitchen. Tonight it would be a chicken, vegetable and pasta dish she’d picked up at the market on her way home. If only they tasted as good as they looked on the box, she thought wistfully as she read the instructions and turned the oven on.
She wandered into the bedroom and started to undress, then changed her mind and went into the living room, where she turned on her computer. There’d been nothing from David for a week now. Nothing since she’d sent a reply last Thursday, and she couldn’t help wondering whether he’d lost interest. Too many things on his mind, perhaps? Too many distractions?
She had mail. Molly sat down at the desk. It was from David! A long one.
She read it through to the end, then read it again before sitting back in her chair, her mind in turmoil. Two weeks at Christmas? He said he hadn’t mentioned it to Lijuan or her grandmother yet, but he thought it might be the best way to reintroduce Lijuan to England, and they would be staying with David’s aunt and uncle, Ellen and Reg Starkie. He said he was looking forward to having Molly meet his daughter and her grandmother, which was nice, but then David had gone on to say that he’d had to turn down the offer of a job at Broadminster hospital. He said he couldn’t see any prospect of returning to Broadminster in the near future, so he’d felt it only fair to let them know so they could offer the job to someone else. Meanwhile, he’d taken a temporary job at the Tung Wah hospital – there was an attachment with some pictures.
Two months away. Molly felt a chill when she read that and saw the pictures. The Tung Wah hospital looked like a big one, and she couldn’t help wondering what ‘temporary’ might mean. But two weeks at Christmas? Was it realistic to think that Lijuan would choose to live here, when her grandmother and her friends were in Hong Kong? Molly didn’t think so. David had said that Lijuan was eight when she left England with her mother; and she was fourteen now. Crucial years in a young girl’s life, and David had said himself that Lijuan was happy there and doing well at school. And having just lost her mother . . .
And Christmas! Maybe it was supposed to be a jolly season, with its carols and joy to the world and all that stuff, but there could hardly be a worse time to come to England. Crowded airports; cold, miserable weather. Rain, sleet or snow – it was bound to be one or the other. Dark by four o’clock; people dashing about doing their last-minute shopping . . . Lijuan was probably used to crowds, so that might not bother her, but weather-wise . . .? No, it was not a good time to come if David was hoping his daughter would opt for England over Hong Kong.
Molly turned to the computer and brought up the current weather in Hong Kong. Eighty-two degrees and clear skies! She listened to the sound of rain outside and groaned aloud. She typed in ‘Hong Kong seasonal weather/winter’. Ranges between fifty and sixty-two degrees. Warmer clothing is recommended.
Molly slumped back in her chair. Oh, yes, she thought glumly, Lijuan and her grandmother would really be impressed. They would probably want to get on the next plane back to Hong Kong. There was no way it would be a fair test.
She was still thinking about it when she sat down to dinner. She poked at it, ate a bit, stirred it around, but finally pushed it away only half eaten. Later, when she was clearing up, Molly looked at the picture on the box before disposing of it. Good picture: it was what had prompted her to buy it in the first place. As for the product . . .? She made a face, dropped the meal in the bin and closed the lid.