NINETEEN

APART FROM A TORN EAR, which now had eight stitches in it, Eric Tyson had managed to protect his head. But the rest of his upper body and his arms had taken a vicious beating.

No bones were broken, his doctor said, but it would be some time before Eric would be able to move without pain. As for the psychological damage … The doctor merely shrugged and shook his head.

They found Tom Tyson in the patients’ lounge. He was sitting on a couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, staring at the floor. He looked up as they came in, and Tregalles was shocked by the change in the man. His broad face seemed to have shrunk, and he looked old. Old and very tired.

‘I reckoned you’d come,’ was his only greeting.

‘I’m very sorry about your wife,’ Paget said gently. Tyson nodded but remained silent. ‘Have you seen Eric since they brought him down?’

‘Aye. They tell me he’ll be all right, but you should see him. My God! she made a mess of him. He’s black and blue all over his back and arms, his head is cut, and his ear…’ He stopped, unable to go on.

They waited.

Tyson straightened up and looked Paget in the eye. ‘You’d best get your notebook out,’ he told him. ‘I should have told you before, but I didn’t.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I got the boy almost killed because I couldn’t bring myself to do what needed doing. It wasn’t her fault, you know, it were mine.’

Paget and Tregalles pulled up chairs and sat down. ‘What was it you couldn’t bring yourself to do, Mr Tyson?’ Paget asked.

Tyson shook his head slowly. ‘Have her put away,’ he said so quietly that Paget barely heard him. ‘Dr Bradley—he’s the one Emily’s had ever since, well, ever since Eric was born—he’s been trying to get me to do it for a year or more. But I said no; she was my responsibility and I’d look after her.’

He looked down at his hands, examining them closely, and it seemed to the two men that he was asking himself why he’d failed. ‘It got so I couldn’t leave the boy alone with her,’ he went on softly. ‘She had it in her mind that he was the cause of all her pain; all her suffering. And she has suffered, Mr Paget. She has indeed. It’s no wonder her mind went as it did; day in, day out, dragging herself around on those two sticks.

‘She was a good woman,’ he went on earnestly, glancing up to make sure they understood. ‘Very religious. Read the bible every day, and it seemed to help her earlier on when Eric was little. He was late, you see. She were nearly forty when she had him, and something went wrong inside. And then something happened to her bones. It was a sort of arthritis, the doctor said.’ He searched for the right word.

‘Osteoarthritis?’ Paget put in, and Tyson’s face cleared.

‘Aye, that was it,’ he said. ‘And it was painful, Mr Paget. Some days she was off her head with pain, and the tablets didn’t seem to help her. She prayed, Mr Paget. She believed that God would heal her if only she could pray hard enough. But then, as time went on and she got worse, something happened to her.’

Tyson buried his head in his hands once again. ‘It was as if she were twisted, somehow. She got it into her head that she was cursed. She even had the vicar over and pleaded with him to do one of them things they do to get rid of evil spirits, but he said he couldn’t do that. He tried to tell her it wasn’t evil spirits at all, but she wouldn’t have it and told him to get out. She said he was one of them.

‘That’s when she started blaming Eric for everything, and it’s been getting worse ever since. The doctor told me a long time ago that I should put her in a place where she could be treated, but I couldn’t do that, Mr Paget. She was my wife. I couldn’t do it.’

Tyson sighed heavily. ‘But she started lashing out at Eric whenever he came near, and when she started talking about killing him to get rid of the curse, I knew I had to do something. Dr Bradley made an appointment for her to see this psychiatrist weeks ago, but she refused to go. Screamed at me; called me everything she could lay her tongue to. So I waited for her to calm down and suggested that she at least have Dr Bradley in to explain things to her, but that just set her off again.

‘Yesterday, I went to see him again, and he gave me these tablets. He said to put two in her cocoa at bedtime, then put two more in her tea next morning. He said it would make her go all drowsy like the stuff they give you in hospital before an operation. Then he said I was to take her straight over to Collington mental home, and they’d do an assessment of her there. He said he expected they would be keeping her there.’

Tyson shrugged apologetically. ‘But I couldn’t do it,’ he said simply. ‘I had the tablets in my hand, but I couldn’t put them in her cocoa. And now she’s dead. I don’t know; perhaps it’s for the best. She would have hated it in there. But in a fire…’ He shuddered and turned his face away.

‘Tell me how Lisa Remington died,’ said Paget.

For a moment, it seemed as if Tyson hadn’t heard, but then he slowly nodded. ‘I thought you’d be asking about that,’ he said. ‘But she was dead, you know. I mean, when Eric found her there by the wall.’

‘You mean the wall between your field and Bracken Cottage?’ Tregalles said.

‘That’s right. I made him show me where he’d found her. The wall is very low there, so maybe she climbed over.’ Tyson looked up at them. ‘I can’t always get it right, you see,’ he went on. ‘Not with Eric. He does his best, but it’s not easy to understand everything he says.’

‘When did this take place?’ asked Paget.

Tyson thought back. ‘It would be the Wednesday. Eric found her early morning; must have been before seven, but it was close to ten when I first saw her. See, Eric thought she was hurt, so he carried her up to the barn and made a bed for her in the straw. He does that with animals and birds he finds, and I suppose he thought it was the same. When he realized she was dead, he did what he thought right. He put flowers round her like he’d seen us do when his Granny Tyson died. Then he came and took me up there to show me what he’d done. I couldn’t stop him bringing flowers even after she was buried, and I was afraid someone would catch on if they saw him.’ He looked from one to the other and saw doubt there on their faces.

‘If anyone’s at fault, it’s me,’ he said. ‘I’m the one who buried her.’

‘How do you think Lisa died?’ Paget asked. ‘You saw the body; what do you think killed her?’

Tyson grimaced. ‘She’d taken some shot in her left eye,’ he said. ‘There wasn’t much on her face, and not much blood, but that left eye was gone. I reckon the shot must have gone up into her brain.’

‘Was the body stiff or flaccid when you first saw it?’

‘Her arms and face were stiff,’ Tyson told him. ‘But her legs weren’t when I rolled her into the sheet.’

‘What time would that be?’

‘Between ten and eleven that morning. Eric had been pestering me since about eight, but I had things to do, so I didn’t go up till later.’

‘And when did you bury her?’

‘Not till dark. Should have done it earlier because she was as stiff as a board by then.’

Paget did a quick calculation. He’d have to talk to Starkie, but his own guess was that Lisa had probably died sometime between midnight and three o’clock Wednesday morning.

Tyson was speaking again. ‘I know I should have reported it,’ he said tonelessly, ‘but I was afraid. Afraid they’d take Eric away. The lad only did what he thought was right. I didn’t want him put away like some animal in a cage. He’s a good lad, is Eric.’

‘Are you quite sure that Eric didn’t kill Lisa Remington?’ Paget asked quietly. ‘I’m told he was very fond of her, and he might have become enraged if he walked into the house and found her in bed with a strange man.’

Tyson was shaking his head violently from side to side. ‘Eric’s never hurt anything,’ he insisted. ‘He was just trying to help. And he would never have killed her. No matter what else she might have been, she was always kind to Eric. He practically worshipped her.’

‘It could have been an accident,’ said Paget. ‘Eric kills rabbits with that shotgun of his. The man who was killed died from a shotgun blast.’

‘See? See?’ said Tyson as he scrambled to his feet. He stood there breathing heavily. ‘That’s what I mean. Because he can’t defend himself, you’ll try to say he did it, and he didn’t. I know he didn’t.’

‘How do you know, Mr Tyson?’ It was Tregalles who spoke.

‘Because,’ said the man, ‘Eric may not be able to speak, but I understand him, and he’s never lied. Even when he knew I’d be cross with him, he always showed me exactly what he’d done. He was never in that house that night, believe me. He was trying to help, that’s all.’

Paget wanted to believe him. There was no doubt that Tyson was convinced of his son’s innocence. But no matter how much faith the man had in his son, the possibility remained that Eric could have killed Lisa Remington.

Another thought crossed his mind. ‘When I first saw Eric at the cottage, he seemed to be afraid of Foster,’ he said. ‘Foster seemed surprised by that. Do you know why he would act that way, Mr Tyson?’

Tyson nodded slowly. ‘Eric was never that keen on Foster,’ he said. ‘It was Miss Remington he liked. She was good to him. Patient, like, you know.’ Tyson paused, and when he continued, he seemed to be choosing his words carefully. ‘It could be that he thinks Foster killed the girl. I don’t know that, mind, but it could be. I do know he’s stayed clear of him since that day.’

‘Perhaps there’s a good reason for that,’ Tregalles said. ‘Perhaps he saw something. Can you find out?’

Tyson shook his head. ‘It takes me all my time to understand the boy on simple things,’ he said. ‘Things like that … they’re too complicated. Sorry.’

*   *   *

FRANK PORTER followed Mike Freeman into the office and closed the door behind him. ‘The police are asking questions about the car,’ he said worriedly.

Freeman hung up his coat and turned to face Porter. He looked tired. ‘So?’ he said. ‘Isn’t that their job?’

Porter shook his head. ‘You don’t understand,’ he said. ‘They’ve been round to the neighbours, asking questions. The chap next door told me last night. Said he was sorry to hear we’d had a car stolen last month. He said the police were going round asking everyone if they’d seen anything suspicious. They know, Mike. They must! Why else would they come round asking questions like that right next door? What are we going to do, Mike?’

‘Do?’ said Freeman as he sat down. ‘We’re not going to do anything, Frank. Stop being such a bloody old woman. The police have nothing.’

‘Nothing?’ Porter squeaked. ‘For Christ’s sake, Mike, they must have something to be sniffing round like that.’

Freeman leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. ‘So the police have been round the neighbours. What is there for them to find out? You haven’t done anything stupid, have you, Frank?’

Porter flushed. ‘Of course I haven’t done anything stupid,’ he shot back.

‘Then why are you worrying? Even if they find out, what can they do? A slap on the wrist for obstruction, but that’s about all. What else can they prove?’ His face darkened. ‘Unless someone talks out of turn, Frank.’

Porter’s mouth opened but no sound came out. He didn’t like the way Mike Freeman was looking at him. He found his voice. ‘No one’s going to do that, Mike,’ he said hoarsely.

Freeman continued to hold his gaze. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘So forget it.’ He drew a sheaf of papers toward him and began to read.

Porter stared at him. ‘Forget it?’ It was almost a yelp. ‘For Christ’s sake, Mike, we…’

Freeman sighed heavily. ‘I said forget it, Frank. Now get out of here. I’ve got work to do even if you haven’t.’

*   *   *

‘MERRICK STAYED two nights at the Beechwood just outside Ludlow.’ DC York produced a photocopy of the entry in the hotel register. ‘March 11th and 12th. The receptionist remembers him well. She said he came in limping badly, and there was blood on his coat and trousers. She offered to ring the doctor, but he swore at her and told her to mind her own business. Said he’d been in an accident, but he didn’t need her help, then made straight for the bar.’

Sergeant Ormside looked at the entries. ‘Sounds like Merrick, all right,’ he said. ‘Resting up, was he?’

York nodded. ‘That’s what it looks like. The receptionist said he stayed in his room all the next day, just sending down for meals and drinks. She said he must have left during that night or very early the next morning, because he was gone when they took his tea up at seven. Left the room in a right old mess, though. Bath in a mess and towels all covered in blood.’

‘So he could have gone back the next night,’ said Ormside ruminatively. ‘Found Lisa in bed with Gray, and shot him with Foster’s gun. Lisa must have been wounded in the process, but managed to get away. Died later, if Tyson is to be believed.’

Somebody, he thought, would have to talk to Merrick again; check out his story; look for anything that would connect him to Bracken Cottage on the 12th or later. He yawned and stretched. Time enough for that in the morning, he decided. At least Merrick was safely in custody in London. Thank God for that, at least.

*   *   *

BODY OF TOP MODEL FOUND? was the headline, but it was the picture of Lisa Remington that first caught Sean Merrick’s eye. Out on bail, he’d stopped in for a take-away and the paper was on the counter. He snatched it up and scanned the article, tearing the paper almost in half in his haste to turn to page two.

‘Hey! Watch it, mate,’ said the man behind the counter, but Merrick paid no attention. He read on. The article was short on detail, but there could be little doubt that the body was that of Lisa.

Merrick crumpled the paper in his hands. Foster. He was to blame for everything. It was all his fault. Merrick clenched his fists. He’d pay, the bastard! By God, he’d pay!

The man behind the counter reached over for the paper. ‘I said watch it,’ he said threateningly. ‘That paper…’

Merrick grabbed his arm and pulled hard. ‘You shut your face unless you want this paper rammed down your bloody throat,’ he snarled. The people waiting on either side of him moved hastily away as he slammed the paper down. No one said a word as he shouldered his way to the door, fists balled and ready to smash anyone in his path.

*   *   *

‘MOLLY THINKS she might have a suspect,’ Tregalles said. ‘She wants Olivia to have a look at him to see if it’s the same man.’

Audrey’s hand flew to her mouth as if she was afraid of saying something she shouldn’t. She felt a coldness creeping through her even as her mind told her not to be so silly.

‘I don’t want her near him,’ she blurted. Her voice was high, on the verge of panic. ‘I’m sorry, John, but no. It could frighten her.’

John Tregalles set aside the tea-towel and put his arms around his wife’s shoulders, but Audrey shook them away. ‘Stop it, John. My hands are all soapy. Can’t you see I’m doing the washing up?’ She knew she was being irrational, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself.

Tregalles pulled her gently away from the sink and handed her a towel. ‘We can’t do anything until we are sure it’s the right man,’ he said gently. ‘And Olivia would be inside a car.’

‘But…’ Audrey gnawed at her lower lip, trying desperately to think of a reason for saying no. ‘She’s so young, John. I mean, you hear of this sort of thing coming back years later.’

‘It’s not as if he’s done anything to frighten her,’ Tregalles pointed out. ‘In fact, Olivia hasn’t shown any sign that it’s bothered her a bit. Sitting in an unmarked car, watching for this man, would probably seem like a bit of a lark to her. Something to talk about at school.’

‘You want her to do it, don’t you?’ Audrey said. ‘You’ve already decided.’

Tregalles shook his head. ‘You know better than that, love,’ he said.

Audrey eyed him doubtfully. ‘Could I be there with her?’

‘Of course. It could be a long wait, though, for both of you.’

‘And he’d be arrested there and then? If it’s him.’

Tregalles wished Audrey hadn’t asked that question. ‘It doesn’t work like that,’ he said. ‘You see, as far as we know, he hasn’t done anything wrong. He’s…’

Audrey bristled. ‘He tried to take Olivia,’ she said, but Tregalles was shaking his head.

‘That’s just it, love. He didn’t do anything apart from walk with her and talk to her. Then he left. There’s no crime in that. Olivia wasn’t frightened. In fact it made so little impression on her that she only mentioned it casually later on.’

‘But he could have. He might have been going to take her when something frightened him off.’ Audrey’s voice was rising again. ‘John, the man could be dangerous. He ought to be arrested.’

‘Perhaps he should,’ Tregalles agreed, ‘but until we have more evidence, we can’t do anything. The thing is, if Olivia tells us that’s the right man, we can watch his every move, and when he does try it on, then we have him.’

Audrey stared at him. ‘You mean you’d leave him loose so that he could do … whatever it is he does?’ Her eyes grew larger. ‘Are you saying he could still come after Olivia?’

‘He can still come after Olivia, as you put it, now,’ said Tregalles reasonably. ‘This way, at least we’d know who to watch.’

Audrey turned back to the washing up. ‘I’ll have to think about it,’ she said, not looking at him. ‘I—I understand what you’re saying, and you’re probably right. It’s just…’ A tear ran down her nose and splashed in the water, and she wiped her cheek with the back of her hand.

She didn’t know why she was crying.