Not only had they made good time, considering they had made their way across country on secondary roads, but they had passed through countryside and any number of picturesque towns and villages they might otherwise never have seen. Travelling east, facing the sun, had been hard on the eyes for the first few miles, but from then on it had been an enjoyable journey.
Even the streets of Cambridge were relatively quiet, but as Paget pointed out, it was still early; it was a Saturday, and the colleges were more or less shut down for the summer.
Guided by Grace reading the map of the city she’d taken off the net the night before, Paget made his way to the police station on Parkside. ‘Just going to let them know I’m here on their patch,’ he told her, ‘and thank them for their help yesterday.’
He emerged some twenty-five minutes later to find Grace sitting in the car with the doors open to let the breeze through. ‘Sorry to take so long,’ he apologized, ‘but they were giving me a rundown on Sam Bergman and his business, and as far as they’re concerned, he’s a successful businessman with a clean record.’ He handed Grace a sheet of paper. ‘That’s a copy of Bergman’s listing in the Yellow Pages.’
‘Impressive,’ Grace said as she scanned the page. ‘“Bespoke jewellery . . . special commissions . . . gold, silver . . . handmade wedding and engagement rings to your design . . . diamond setting . . .” Sounds as if Samuel Bergman is doing very well. That insurance settlement must have helped.’
‘I imagine it did.’ Paget went around and got in the car. ‘In fact he must be doing very well, because he moved into a big new shopping centre called the Grand Arcade at the beginning of this year. I rang Bergman while I was in there to tell him we’d be visiting him in a few minutes.’
‘How did he sound?’
‘If you mean, did he sound worried, I’d say no. He sounded much the same as he did yesterday, when I set up this meeting, when he told me he’d be pleased to help in any way he could if it would lead to the capture of the men who killed his wife.’
‘Which is probably what I would have said under the circumstances if I’d been complicit in the killing of my wife or husband . . . or lover,’ she added with a smile.
‘My, we are being cynical, today, aren’t we?’ he said as he handed Grace a second piece of paper. ‘Directions on how to get to the Grand Arcade from here,’ he said. ‘I’m told it’s impossible to miss, and it’s not very far from here.’
The Grand Arcade was hard to miss, and judging by the number of cars in the multi-storey car park, and the steady stream of people entering the shopping centre itself, there had to be a fair bit of money about in Cambridge, thought Paget as they made their way inside. Sunlight poured through the domed glass ceiling, giving a light and airy feeling to the concourse as they followed the directions Paget had been given in Parkside.
‘There it is,’ said Grace, pointing. ‘Over there on the corner.’
The name, Samuel Bergman – Jeweller, Gold and Silversmith, was written in gold on a black background on the window.
They entered the shop, where Paget identified himself to a slim, dark-haired young woman behind the long display counter. ‘Ah, yes,’ she said, ‘Mr Bergman is expecting you, and he will be here in a moment, Chief Inspector.’ Even as she was speaking, her hand slid beneath the edge of the counter, and Paget noted the brief tightening of the tendons of her wrist as she pressed a hidden button. He glanced around; there were at least three cameras in the shop, and possibly other safeguards as well, so it seemed that Samuel Bergman had learned something about security since the Broadminster robbery and the killing of his wife.
A door at the far end of the shop opened and a short, heavy-set, balding man advanced towards them, hand extended. ‘Chief Inspector Paget,’ he said effusively as they shook hands. ‘And . . .?’ He looked enquiringly at Grace, then back to Paget.
‘Ms Lovett is a crime scene investigator,’ Paget explained as they both produced their cards for Bergman’s inspection. ‘She is working with me on the investigation.’
‘I see,’ said Bergman, but he looked faintly puzzled, and his tone belied his words. ‘You had no trouble finding us, then?’ he said.
‘None at all,’ Paget assured him. ‘And I must say I’m impressed with the Grand Arcade. I gather it hasn’t been open long.’
‘Just last year,’ Bergman told him. ‘In fact we have been here less than six months ourselves.’
‘And business . . .?’ Paget enquired. ‘Has it been affected by the recession?’
‘Not as much as you might think,’ Bergman said, sounding almost smug. ‘People are becoming more conservative in their choice of engagement and wedding rings and jewellery in general, but we also trade in gold and silver; we have done for some years now, and that is where the interest lies today. In fact, I am happy to say, compared to some of my competitors, we are doing very well. But that is not why you’re here, is it, Chief Inspector? Please, come this way.’
Bergman led them to the back of the shop, where he ushered them into a small, tastefully furnished room. ‘Our viewing and selection room,’ he said proudly, directing them to soft leather seats facing an oval, glass-topped, mahogany desk. ‘Some of our clients prefer to make their selections in private,’ he explained. ‘With our assistance, of course,’ he added when he saw Paget’s eyes flick to the two CCTV cameras monitoring the room.
Bergman moved to the other side of the desk to take his own seat. ‘I must apologize for insisting that we meet here, Chief Inspector,’ he said, ‘but as I explained on the phone yesterday, we are short-handed in our workshop, so my wife and I will be working here throughout the weekend to meet a deadline on a special order. Otherwise, we would have been happy to have you come to our home.’
‘This is perfectly fine,’ Paget assured him, ‘and I’ll try not to keep you too long. Is your wife here?’
‘She should be here at any moment now,’ Bergman told him. ‘She is just finishing the repair of a rather fine necklace.’
‘Really?’ Paget said. ‘I didn’t realize that Mrs Bergman was involved in that side of the business. According to the notes we have on file, Loretta Thompson was your bookkeeper and part-time assistant in the shop.’
‘And that was true at the time,’ Bergman said, ‘but Loretta was always interested in our work, and Emily began teaching her some of the basics about a year before she died, so Loretta was able to help me afterwards. Later, after moving to Cambridge, Loretta took an art foundation course, then went on to get a degree in jewellery and silversmithing. She has a natural talent for it, and she’s been invaluable to me. Ah!’ he exclaimed as a door opened and a woman wearing a white smock entered the room. ‘Here she is now. Loretta, this is Detective Chief Inspector Paget, and Ms Lovett, who is a . . .’ He made an apologetic gesture with his hands. ‘I’m sorry, Ms Lovett,’ he said, ‘but your title is . . .?’
‘Crime Scene Investigator,’ Grace told him.
‘CSI?’ the woman said with a smile. ‘Is that the same as we see on television?’
‘I wish,’ Grace said with feeling. ‘We do much the same job, but the comparison ends there, I’m afraid, especially when it comes to the equipment and the amount of space they have to work in.’
‘Sam said you wanted to talk to both of us about what happened when Emily was killed,’ she said, addressing Paget as she sat down, ‘but I don’t know what I can tell you, because I wasn’t there that day – at least until much later, when the police called me in.’
Loretta Bergman was tall, taller than her husband by several inches. Slim, fine-boned; her shoulder-length fair hair framed a rather plain face, except for the eyes. Calm, restful, yet seductive eyes, thought Grace, and wondered if that was the way Neil would see them as Loretta Bergman looked at him.
‘I realize that, Mrs Bergman,’ said Paget, ‘but I thought it would save time on both sides if we could talk to the two of you together. As I told Mr Bergman on the phone, evidence has come to our attention in the form of a letter of sorts from someone who claims he was the driver for the gang who broke into your shop thirteen years ago. Unfortunately, he did not give us any other names, so we have been talking to everyone who might have been associated with him back then, and with the people who were also robbed by the same gang.
‘Their original statements are on file, along with your own, of course, and while I know this may be difficult for you, I would like to talk to you about the events of that day, and anything that might have occurred to you since then.’
Sam Bergman, sitting back in his chair, hands clasped over his stomach, nodded. ‘I’ve thought of little else since you called me yesterday,’ he said soberly. ‘And you’re right, it is hard, but if there’s any chance, and I mean any chance at all of finding and catching the bastards who killed Emily, I’ll help you in any way I can. So, where do you want to start?’
‘From the time you entered the shop that Saturday morning,’ Paget told him. ‘The report I have says you entered by the front door at approximately eight thirty. Was that your usual practise?’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘Never by the back door?’
‘No.’
‘Did you, for any reason, open the back door between the time you arrived and when you left again to go down to the cafe on the corner to meet your friends?’
‘No. Why would I?’ Bergman asked.
‘I don’t know. Perhaps you heard something going on out there and went to look; perhaps you took some rubbish out to the bin . . .?’
Bergman shook his head. ‘Nothing like that,’ he said firmly. ‘We just got on with the cleaning and getting the shop ready for business. I went over and over this with the inspector at the time. We did nothing different that morning.’
‘There seems to have been some question about whether or not you locked the back door when you left. Did you lock it behind you?’
Annoyance flickered in Bergman’s eyes as he said, ‘No, as I told them at the time, I didn’t lock the door, but Emily always shot the bolt on the door when I left. And I never left until I heard her do it. The insurance people hammered at that every chance they got, but I know that door was bolted from the inside.’
‘And I’m not disputing that,’ Paget told him, ‘but as you know, there was no indication that the door had been forced, so it must have been your wife who opened the door.’
Bergman nodded agreement. ‘I’m sure it was,’ he said. ‘She probably thought it was me or possibly George.’
‘You mean she would open the door if anyone knocked?’
Bergman shook his head impatiently. ‘Emily wouldn’t open the door to just anyone, although, with the benefit of hindsight, I can see how careless we were. But you have to remember, it was a peaceful town; there had never been so much as a hint of trouble, so I suppose you could say we’d become lax. Emily knew that I always gave three sets of three knocks.’ Bergman demonstrated by rapping three times in quick succession on the desk, followed by a pause, doing it again, pause, then a third time. ‘Like Morse code,’ he explained. ‘“S” for Sam three times. The only other person who used it was George Taylor from next door.’
Paget turned to Loretta. ‘Did you know about that signal at the back door?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I did,’ she said. ‘I never had a reason to use it, but I knew about it.’
Paget turned back to Sam. ‘If George Taylor knew about it, it seems likely to me that there could have been others who knew it as well,’ he said.
Sam bristled. ‘Like who?’ he demanded. ‘I never told anyone else, and I’m sure Emily didn’t.’
‘And I certainly didn’t,’ Loretta said.
‘What about George Taylor’s two boys?’ asked Paget. ‘They probably knew.’
‘I suppose they might,’ Sam said, ‘but I think you’re clutching at straws if you’re suggesting that they were involved. They were good lads. Never had any trouble with them.’
‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ Paget replied, ‘except, from what you’ve told me, it’s quite possible that others may have known as well. Tell me, Mr Bergman, did you know a boy by the name of Barry Grant?’
Sam thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Why?’
‘Yes, you did, Sam,’ Loretta said. ‘Remember? He used to hang around with young David Taylor. The one I warned Tony to stay away from?’
‘Grant?’ he said with a sharp glance at his wife. ‘Was that his name?’ He shrugged an apology. ‘Sorry, my dear, but I’d forgotten his name.’
Paget was almost afraid to ask. Almost everyone they had spoken to had done their best to distance themselves from Barry Grant. Hardly surprising, perhaps, since no one wanted to be associated with the boy who had confessed to being part of a gang that had killed two people.
‘How well did you know Barry?’ he asked Loretta.
‘Well enough to know he was a bad influence,’ she said. ‘He was always showing off, talking about things he’d done or was going to do. He was such a cocky kid. I just didn’t like him, and I didn’t want him anywhere near my son, Tony. Barry was two or three years older than Tony, and Tony thought he was wonderful. Followed him around every chance he got. Fortunately, that ended when Barry went off to university. Although . . .’
Loretta fell silent, leaving the word hanging in the air. Paget was about to ask another question, but held back, sensing there was more to come.
Loretta drew a deep breath, and there was sadness in her eyes as she said, ‘Perhaps things would have been different if Barry hadn’t gone away. At least Tony wouldn’t have gone looking for someone to take his place, and he might still be alive.’
Sam Bergman reached out and took his wife’s hand in his own. ‘You did the best you could, my dear,’ he said soothingly. ‘Please don’t blame yourself.’ He looked across at Paget. ‘Tony was a good boy,’ he said quietly, ‘but he was easily led. After this Grant boy went away, Tony got in with the wrong crowd; got into drugs, and died of an overdose a couple of months later. He’d just turned seventeen. Loretta didn’t know anything about it until it was too late.’
Loretta withdrew her hand and looked at Paget. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s just that when you mentioned Barry Grant, it all came back again. Why are you asking about him?’
‘Because he is the person I mentioned at the beginning. The one who drove the van in each of the robberies. He left some notes behind when he died, but they never came to light until a week or so ago and, as I said, he didn’t name any of the others, so—’
‘He’s dead?’ Loretta asked sharply.
‘That’s right. You didn’t know? He committed suicide a couple of days after the robbery.’
Loretta shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t know,’ she said, with a questioning glance at her husband.
Sam shook his head. ‘I don’t remember hearing anything about it,’ he said, ‘but if I’d known at the time that he was one of them, I’d have killed the murdering little sod myself!’
It seemed strange that neither of them had known about Barry’s death, but thinking about it now, Paget could see how that could happen. Sam and Loretta would have been preoccupied with their own problems, and the suicide had not been given a lot of play in the local media.
Grace looked at Paget, one eyebrow raised in a silent question. He caught the look and nodded for her to go ahead. ‘You mentioned David Taylor, Mrs Bergman,’ she said. ‘You said that Barry used to “hang around” with him. Do you remember any other friends of Barry’s . . . or of David’s?’
Loretta thought for a moment, then shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t have known that much about Barry if it hadn’t been for Tony,’ she said. ‘I had to keep an eye on him right from the time he was quite small, because he was far too trusting; he would go along with anyone and do almost anything they suggested, so I always tried to make sure I knew who he was with, but it became almost impossible as he grew older. As for young David, when I said Barry used to hang around with him, it always seemed to me that David would like to be rid of him, but couldn’t quite bring himself to see him off. David always struck me as a nice boy, quiet, always polite, and his brother was much the same.’ She smiled. ‘I think that must have come from their mother’s side,’ she said, ‘because they certainly didn’t get it from their father.’
‘George was all right,’ her husband protested. ‘I know you thought he was a bit coarse at times, but he was a good friend.’
‘I’m not denying that, Sam,’ Loretta said softly, ‘but you have to admit he was pretty hard on the boys; they could never live up to his expectations, and he was even harder on them after Lydia died.’ Loretta saw the question in Grace’s eyes. ‘Lydia Taylor, George’s wife,’ she explained. ‘She was the buffer between George and the boys, and I think it literally wore her out in the end. She died when they were in their teens. Cervical cancer.’
‘You knew the family well, then?’ said Grace.
Loretta shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ she said, ‘but I lived just up the street from the bakery. After my husband died, I sold the house and Tony and I moved into a flat above the tobacconist’s on the corner. I first met Lydia at an art course we both attended when the children were small, and we became quite friendly. But then Lydia stopped coming, which was a pity, because she had talent. Apparently George thought it a waste of time and money, so he told her to drop it, and she did. I used to talk to her in the shop quite regularly, but it was never the same after that. It was almost as if she was afraid to spend time talking in case George disapproved. And George was just as hard on the boys after their mother died.’
Sam was shaking his head. ‘Be fair, Loretta,’ he said. ‘It can’t have been any picnic trying to raise two teenage boys after their mother died, and run a business as well, especially a bakery. He told me Lydia had always been too soft with them, and they needed discipline.’
‘Discipline is one thing, Sam,’ Loretta said, ‘but those kids worked hard in that bakery, and yet he was never satisfied. You know how he used to yell at them, Sam. We could hear him out there in the lane when they were loading the vans. It didn’t seem to matter what they did, he would always find something to grumble about. And the way he went on and on about Kevin when he took up with the Bradshaw girl because of her father . . . I mean it really was ridiculous!’
‘What was that about?’ asked Paget before Bergman could reply.
Loretta looked to her husband, silently passing the question over to him. Sam shrugged. ‘It was just that he felt Ed Bradshaw had betrayed him,’ he said.
‘Betrayed him in what way?’
‘George and Ed had been friends ever since they were kids, so when Ed took on a case for the owner of a café who was taking George to court over some tainted Cornish pasties he’d received from George’s bakery, George was furious. And when he lost the case, that was the end of their friendship as far as he was concerned. So, you can imagine how he felt when he found out that Kevin was going with Ed’s daughter.’
‘But he should never have—’ Loretta began heatedly, only to be cut off by Paget.
‘Can either of you think of any other friends of David and Kevin Taylor and Barry Grant?’
Sam shook his head. Loretta thought for a moment, then shook her head as well. ‘I’m sure there were others,’ she said, ‘but I can’t remember anyone in particular.’
‘Right, then,’ said Paget, glancing at his watch. ‘I know you have a busy day ahead of you, and I do thank you both for your patience, but before we leave, I must ask you, Mrs Bergman, about your hours of work in the shop back then. I know you worked there part-time, but I’m told that you normally worked there on Saturdays, and yet you weren’t there on the day the robbery took place. Would you mind telling me why?’