‘I think we should be digging deeper into the relationship between Barry Grant and David Taylor,’ Paget said after giving a brief summary of his visit to Cambridge on the weekend. ‘If George Taylor knew about Sam Bergman’s “secret knock”, then I’m sure the boys knew about it as well, and there could be others. According to Loretta Bergman, both boys were bullied by their father, so it’s possible that it was David who George Taylor recognized when he pulled the mask off, bearing in mind that Barry did mention David by name.
‘So, Tregalles,’ he said, ‘I want you to find out everything you can about David Taylor and any other friends he had back then, and the same goes for Kevin Taylor as well, since he was still seeing his girlfriend after being told by his father that he had to drop her if he wanted his financial support to continue.’
He turned to Ormside. ‘Anything on the car or the people Whitfield saw leaving the Corbetts’ house?’ he asked.
‘Nothing yet,’ the Sergeant told him.
Paget scanned the whiteboards once again. ‘We need to get more people out to canvas the area around the Unicorn to see if anyone remembers seeing Corbett or his car. And since Charlie’s people didn’t find Corbett’s mobile phone in the pond, the sooner we get those phone records, the better.
‘Now,’ he continued, ‘what about this attack on Sharon Jessop?’ he asked Molly. ‘Do you see it as having anything to do with the Grant investigation?’
Molly shook her head. ‘Not if what one of the neighbours told me last night is true. She claims to have seen Al Jessop leaving the house between nine thirty and ten. And Sharon’s father told us the other day that Jessop is in the habit of coming round to sub off Sharon whenever she gets paid. Except this time the cupboard was bare because she’d just lost her job.’
‘Has Jessop herself said anything about who it was?’ Ormside asked.
‘No. She was in no condition to talk when I saw her last night, and they’re keeping her more or less sedated until they’re sure there isn’t any pressure on the brain. She has a broken cheekbone, bruises all over her face, head, and upper body, a fractured collarbone, three cracked ribs and possible internal injuries – they’re doing more tests today. There are bruises on her throat that suggest her attacker also tried to strangle her. You can see the condition she was in from these pictures.’
Molly produced a large envelope and slid half-a-dozen glossy pictures on to Ormside’s desk, where she spread them out for the others to see.
‘He really did do a job on her,’ Tregalles muttered as he bent closer to study one of the pictures. ‘What are those marks around her mouth and on her neck?’
Ormside picked up a magnifying glass. ‘Looks to me as if he was wearing gloves with a coarse weave,’ he said. ‘You can see a faint pattern.’
Paget studied the pictures. ‘It may be a while before Mrs Jessop can talk to us,’ he told Ormside, ‘but let’s have her husband in for questioning. And we still need to know the name of the man Mrs Jessop claims whispered to her during the robbery at the pub, so, since she knows Forsythe, I want her to monitor Mrs Jessop’s condition in hospital, and question her on both counts as soon as possible. Do we have anything on Jessop’s husband?’
‘Not really,’ the Sergeant said. ‘He’s been involved in a couple of pub brawls, and Uniforms responded to a domestic back in February, but his wife refused to lay charges, and that’s about it. He doesn’t have a regular job, but he’s licensed to drive large goods vehicles, and he sometimes fills in when a driver is off sick or away for any reason. But with yesterday being Sunday, we didn’t get very far with our enquiries. We should have better luck today with everyone back at work.’
‘You might see if you can find any connection between Jessop and Barry Grant thirteen years ago,’ Paget said. ‘He sounds like the sort of person who might be up for a robbery.’
He looked at the time. ‘In any case, I’d better be on my way,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in Mr Alcott’s office for about an hour, but then I’m off to Worcester to talk about the introduction of a series of new courses in next year’s training programme. Today is just the preliminary round, but I’ll be asking for your input in the next few weeks, so give it some thought.’
‘Right,’ said Ormside perfunctorily as his gaze swept the office, his mind already focused on what needed to be done, and mentally assigning the individuals who would be best suited for each task. Training was something he could think about later – much later.
The garden appeared to be well tended, but the house in Whitecross Lane was old, small, and in serious need of repair. But that was on the outside; inside, it was clean, airy, and comfortable. Apart from her other talents, it was clear that Irene Sinclair knew how to make the best of small spaces.
‘I know the place looks as if it’s falling down,’ she told Molly as if reading her mind as she ushered her inside, ‘but it’s rented, you see, and I’m afraid my landlord is a bit slow to respond to my constant reminders. However, the roof doesn’t leak, and the windows don’t rattle in a storm, so I’m grateful for small mercies. And the rent isn’t bad either, so that helps.
‘But you didn’t come to talk about my house, did you,’ she said. ‘You want to ask me about Roger and our relationship, don’t you? Can I offer you some tea? I should warn you it’s Chinese and it’s black.’
‘Yes, please,’ Molly said. ‘If it’s anything like the tea they serve at the Golden Dragon, I’d like to try it.’
Irene smiled. ‘I think you’ll like it,’ she said. ‘Anyway, come through to the kitchen and we can talk while the kettle boils. Is it too early to ask if you know what happened?’ She used her foot to hook an old-fashioned bar stool from beneath a high counter, and nudged it towards Molly, then proceeded to fill the kettle and plug it in.
‘It is, yes,’ said Molly as she sat down. ‘Sorry.’
Irene remained standing, arms folded as she leaned with her back against the edge of the counter. ‘Is there any way I can help?’ she asked.
‘As you said when I came in, one of the things we would like to clarify is your relationship with Mr Corbett,’ Molly said. ‘He was married to Lisa, but he seemed to be equally at home with you, and both you and Mrs Corbett appeared to be quite happy with the arrangement. Would you mind explaining that, Miss Sinclair?’
‘Irene, please. And as for our “relationship”, it’s quite simple: Lisa was Roger’s wife and I was Roger’s mother. Not literally, of course,’ she added quickly, ‘but that was the role we played. Although,’ she continued thoughtfully, ‘I think it would be safe to say that our roles were changing, possibly reversing in fact, because Roger was spending more and more time with me than he was with Lisa.’ She shrugged. ‘Hardly surprising, I suppose, considering her involvement with her dancing partner, Ramon.’
‘Involvement . . .?’ Molly queried.
‘Lovers, then,’ Irene said. ‘Have been for years, although Roger didn’t twig until fairly recently.’ The kettle began to boil, and Irene turned her attention to preparing tea. ‘I presume you know she was planning on divorcing Roger?’
‘Yes, Mrs Corbett told me herself the other day. How did Mr Corbett feel about that? I understand he found it hard to hold a steady job; in fact it’s my impression that he was dependent on his wife for support.’
‘Oh, he was. Totally. But what you have to understand is that Roger was a child in many ways. He tried to shut things out. He knew Lisa was going to divorce him, but he wouldn’t allow himself to believe it. He abhorred change, so he ignored it.’
‘Would you mind elaborating on this role of motherhood? I’m afraid I don’t understand it. From what Mr Corbett told DCI Paget, he was sleeping with you the night someone tried to set the Grant house on fire.’
Irene set out two cups and saucers and poured tea. ‘That’s true,’ she said, ‘with sleeping being the operative word. Roger was impotent; had been for many years. And he had nightmares; terrible nightmares. He would often wake up in tears. We didn’t have sex, if that’s what you’re after.’
‘But this back and forth business,’ Molly persisted. ‘You and Lisa Corbett were both happy with the arrangement? You are actually friends?’
‘Good friends,’ said Irene firmly. ‘In fact, while I know Lisa was very much in love with Roger when she married him, I think as time went on she was grateful for the respite when he came to me.’
‘Do you know what his nightmares were about?’
Irene shook her head. ‘He would never say. I asked Lisa if she knew, but she said he wouldn’t tell her either. But that’s why he drank; something happened in his past, but I have no idea what it was.’
‘Did he ever talk about the robbery and killings that took place here in Broadminster thirteen years ago? Did he ever mention the name of Barry Grant before it came up at the house-warming party?’
‘Chief Inspector Paget asked me that, and the answer is still no,’ Irene said. ‘And I would tell you if he had. How do you like the tea?’
There was a ‘To Let’ sign in the corner of the window of the Brush and Palette, and a larger, splashier sign pasted across the window, proclaiming: CLOSING DOWN SALE – 50% OFF! Hardly surprising, Tregalles thought as he switched off the engine. Sheep Lane was off the beaten track, and there were several other more accessible shops in town, where the same art supplies could be bought, probably for less than David Taylor could afford to sell them.
Sitting in his car outside the shop, the Sergeant ran his finger down the list of Roger Corbett’s phone calls immediately following Paget’s departure from Corbett’s office the previous Tuesday.
Top of the list: David Taylor. The conversation had lasted less than a minute, but that would have been long enough to arrange a meeting. The next call was to Irene Sinclair’s answering machine. Following that was a call to Kevin Taylor’s office. His secretary remembered the call, because the caller had ‘muttered an obscenity’ when she’d told him that Kevin would be out of the office for the rest of the day. Sixteen minutes later, Corbett rang Irene Sinclair, using his mobile, so presumably he had moved to the Unicorn by then. Four minutes later, he’d tried again and Irene had answered. She’d told Molly that he’d been almost incoherent at first, and he’d only just begun to calm down when he said he had another call coming in, and had cut her off. And that was the last she’d heard from him.
‘I was used to Roger’s mood swings, and to the way he was when he’d been drinking,’ she’d told Molly, ‘but it was different this time. Oh, there’s no doubt he’d been drinking, but there was something else in his voice. Fear . . .? Desperation . . .? Perhaps a mixture of both. I can’t describe it. It worried me.’
The next call Corbett had made was to John Chadwell’s office at the town hall. Tregalles still had to check that one out, but it too was brief, followed by a call lasting six minutes to Chadwell’s home.
Then nothing.
Tregalles folded the printout and slid it into his jacket pocket. ‘So, let’s see what you have to say for yourself, Mr Taylor,’ he said under his breath as he got out of the car. ‘Because I would like to know why you were the first person Corbett rang after Paget rattled his cage.’
‘Sharon? Sharon? Remember me? Molly Forsythe?’
The woman in the bed winced as she tried to open her eyes. Bruises covered three-quarters of her face; the flesh surrounding both eyes was swollen and puffy, and there were three stitches in the brow above the right eye. A momentary glint of reflected light appeared through narrows slits of swollen flesh, then disappeared again. Sharon Jessop rolled her head slowly from side to side on the pillow as if to say the effort was too much.
She shivered.
Molly pulled up the blanket, careful to avoid touching the splint immobilizing Sharon’s left arm and shoulder. Sharon’s eyes remained closed, but a murmur deep inside her throat was taken by Molly as thanks.
‘I know you must be in a lot of pain,’ she said gently, ‘but we do need to know who did this to you, Sharon. Who was it? Please tell me.’
Sharon tried to move her lips, but they, too, were cut and swollen. ‘Water,’ she managed huskily.
Molly picked up the water bottle on the bedside table and eased the tip of the flexible straw between Sharon’s lips. Sharon sucked greedily on the straw, then choked. Molly slipped an arm around her back and eased her into a sitting position. The coughing subsided. Sharon took one more pull on the straw, pushed it out with her tongue, and fell back panting.
Molly withdrew her arm. ‘Look, Sharon,’ she said, ‘I’ve been told that they want you downstairs for more tests in a few minutes, so I won’t stay long. But you must tell me who did this to you.’
‘Don’t remember,’ Sharon mumbled.
‘You don’t remember? I’m sorry, Sharon, but I don’t believe that. Don’t you want that person caught and punished? You could have been killed. Was it your husband, Al? He was seen leaving your house that night.’
Sharon closed her eyes. ‘Don’t remember,’ she said again.
Molly tried another tack. ‘I spoke to Rachel. Remember Rachel? The girl you used to party with? She remembers some of the boys you went with back then, and she says you kept a diary of sorts. Do you still have it?’
Sharon turned her head away.
‘If it’s in your house we’ll find it, Sharon,’ Molly said. ‘It would be better if you tell us where it is.’
‘Can’t do that. You’ve no right.’
‘You were attacked there,’ said Molly. ‘It’s a crime scene, so yes we can.’
Sharon squinted painfully at her. ‘Burned it years ago. Honest to God. I’m telling the truth. Afraid Al would find it.’
‘All right, so let’s say I believe you,’ Molly said. ‘What about the man who whispered to you during the robbery. Have you remembered his name? How about one of these?’ Molly opened her notebook and read out the names Rachel had given her.
‘Don’t remember,’ said Sharon once again. Tears trickled down her cheeks. ‘Don’t remember,’ she repeated. Her nose started to run; she tried to reach for a tissue from the box on the bedside table, but the effort was too much and she fell back.
Molly handed her a tissue and placed the box beside her on the bed. ‘But you do know who beat you up, don’t you, Sharon?’ she said quietly. ‘We know that your husband was seen leaving the house that evening. You could have been killed. Do you really want this to happen to you again?’
Sharon didn’t answer. She lay still, eyes closed, her cheeks were damp with tears. Frustrated, Molly rose to leave.
‘It was Al.’
The words were spoken so quietly that Molly almost missed them. She bent low over the bed. ‘Say that again, please, Sharon,’ she said.
‘It was Al. He did this. He wanted money; he didn’t believe me when I told him I’d lost my job and there wasn’t any.’
‘Look, I was busy with a customer when Roger called, and I haven’t had many of those lately, so I put him off and told him I’d call him back, all right?’ said David Taylor heatedly in answer to Tregalles’s question. ‘I meant to call him back when the customer left, but then my landlord came in and we got talking about when I could be out of here, and I’m afraid I forgot about Roger until closing time. I rang him back, but he must have had his mobile shut off, because I couldn’t get through. I assumed he would call again if it was very important, but he never did. And that’s all there was to it.’
Tregalles eyed him curiously. ‘Was it?’ he asked softly. ‘Because if that’s all there was to it, as you say, why go all defensive on me over a simple question? What did Roger Corbett tell you when he rang? What is it you’re holding back, Mr Taylor? Because I know there is something you’re not telling me, and that could lead to serious consequences if it turns out it has a bearing on how or why Corbett died.’
David shook his head impatiently. ‘He didn’t tell me anything,’ he said tersely. ‘In fact the man was drunk and I could barely understand him. All I could make out was that the police had been round to question him about Barry Grant and the killing of my father and Mrs Bergman, and he kept saying he had to talk to me. That’s it; that’s all I can tell you.’
‘But why you?’ Tregalles said. ‘Corbett made several calls after that, but you were number one, so why did he call you first?’
David shrugged and spread his hands. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘If I did I would tell you.’ He sucked in his breath and let it out again in a sigh of resignation. ‘To tell you the truth, I thought he was getting all wound up over nothing. Everyone who was at the house-warming was being questioned; we all knew that, so I couldn’t see why Roger was getting so upset? It wasn’t as if he could be suspected of anything. Not Roger, for God’s sake. The idea’s ludicrous. Besides, as I said, he was drunk, so I put him off and told him I’d call him back.’
He shrugged apologetically. ‘Look, Sergeant,’ he said earnestly, ‘I’m sorry, but I’m as much in the dark as you are. I suppose I’m more angry at myself than I am about your questions, because I can’t help wondering if it would have made a difference if I hadn’t cut him off like that. Would Roger still be alive today?’ David’s eyes were bleak as they met those of Tregalles. ‘Unfortunately, this is the second time it’s happened, except last time it was Barry Grant on the other end of the line, and I’ve never stopped wondering if Barry would be alive today if I hadn’t cut him off when he rang me the night he died.’
He fell silent, but Tregalles wasn’t going to let him stop there. ‘Go on,’ he prompted. ‘Why did Barry call you in particular, and what did he want?’
‘He wanted my help and I failed him,’ David said bleakly. ‘And I think he called me because he had no one else to call.’
‘When was this, exactly?’
‘Sunday evening, the day after Dad and Mrs Bergman were killed,’ David explained. ‘Kevin and I were still in shock. Aunt Edith and Uncle Victor were there. Aunt Edith is Dad’s sister, and she and Uncle Victor had come down from Sheffield to help with the arrangements. I mean we were both young; I was twenty-one and Kevin was twenty-two, and we didn’t have a clue about what to do. And that inspector whatever-his-name-was kept coming back with questions, so when Barry rang me that night and said he had to talk to me, I brushed him off.’
He sucked in his breath. ‘The fact is, Sergeant, I tore a strip off him. I told him I was fed up with him pestering me and my friends, and I didn’t give a damn about him or his problems, because I had more than enough of my own. But he kept on and on until, finally, I told him to bloody well grow up, and slammed the phone down. Next thing I heard, he’d killed himself later that night.
‘And that’s it, Sergeant. Every word of that conversation has been burnt into my brain ever since that night, and when Claire came round to tell me that Barry had left some notes behind, and the investigation was being opened up again, the guilt came rushing back. So how do you think I feel about putting Roger off when he was asking for my help? I failed him in the same way I failed Barry Grant, and now they’re both dead, and it’s entirely possible that they might be alive if I hadn’t turned my back on them when they were looking for help.’
‘Which brings me back to my original question,’ Tregalles said. ‘Why were you the first person Corbett called after he was interviewed by DCI Paget? Were you and he particularly close friends?’
David shook his head. ‘No more than anyone else,’ he said slowly, ‘and I’ve been wondering that myself. I’ve known Roger for years, and we would run into each other from time to time, but I’ve no idea why he chose to ring me.’
He sighed, and some of the bitterness went out of his voice as he said, ‘God knows Roger didn’t have much of a life as it was, and to die like that . . . He was such a nice kid at school, happy, cheerful, full of fun; everyone liked Roger. We lost touch when we left school. I went off to Slade and he and most of the others went off to Leeds. But while Kevin and the others were taking things like law, business administration, and engineering, Roger took philosophical and religious studies, and he was really excited about it that first year, and he was looking forward to going back after the holidays.
‘But something changed that second year, and he was only back in uni for a month or so before he dropped out. I remember Kevin and some of the others were quite concerned about him at the time. But then he disappeared, left Broadminster without a word to anyone.
‘The next time I saw him was a couple of years later, but he was a changed man. Nervous, uncertain, not at all like the irrepressible chap he used to be. I thought he must be ill, not physically, perhaps, but suffering from depression or something like that, but he always insisted he was all right, even when it was clear to everyone that he was not. He never did say where he’d been, but years later he mentioned something to me about working on his uncle’s farm in Dorset, so I assumed that was where he’d gone when he left Broadminster.
‘But then he met Lisa, and the two of them hit it off right from the start. They were married within three months, and you could see the change in Roger. He was much more like his old self, and I think the two of them were genuinely happy for a while. But it didn’t last. You could see him going down again. He couldn’t hold a job; he became moody and argumentative, and I know I wondered at one point if he was on drugs. Until it finally dawned on me that Roger was an alcoholic. He’d hidden it very well for a number of years, but it reached a point where he couldn’t hide it any longer. Lisa did everything she could to help him, but nothing seemed to work, and I think she just gave up in the end. In fact, if it hadn’t been for Irene Sinclair, I think the poor chap would have drunk himself to death years ago. I don’t know if you were aware of it, but Roger’s parents died when he was quite young, and I think Irene became a sort of mother figure to him.’
David made a face. ‘It’s a damned shame,’ he said. ‘Basically, Roger was a good man. He didn’t deserve to die like that. Are you quite sure he was murdered, Sergeant? Isn’t it possible that he simply fell into the pond and couldn’t get out?’
‘Not according to the forensic evidence,’ Tregalles told him. ‘Which brings me to my next question. Where were you and what were you doing between four o’clock and midnight last Tuesday, Mr Taylor?’
The big box van pulled into the middle of the yard. The driver dropped it into reverse, then backed smoothly into the narrow bay and stopped within inches of the loading platform. He cut the engine, opened the door of the cab and jumped down.
‘Very impressive,’ said one of the two men in suits who had been watching.
The driver, a tall, fair-haired, skinny man, apart from what appeared to be a good start to a beer belly, acknowledged the words with a wink and a nod. ‘Nothing to it,’ he said. ‘You should see me handle the really big rigs.’ He made to move on, but the man barred his way.
‘Mr Jessop?’ he asked. ‘Mr Albert Jessop?’
‘That’s right. Who wants to know?’
‘Detective Constable Jones, Broadminster CID,’ the man said, holding up his warrant card. ‘And this is DC Albright, and we’d like you to come with us down to the station.’
Al Jessop took a step back, eyes narrowed as they flicked from one man to the other. ‘Why should I?’ he demanded. ‘I haven’t done anything.’
‘Let me see the back of your hands,’ Jones said.
‘What the hell for?’ Jessop flared. ‘Like I said, I haven’t done anything, and I’m not going anywhere with you.’ He made to push past the two men, but they closed on him, backing him against the side of the van. His hands came up, palms facing out in a gesture of surrender. ‘All right, all right, no need to get pushy,’ he said. ‘So what am I supposed to have done, eh? I’ve been out of town the last couple of days, so what’s all this about?’
‘Show us the back of your hands,’ Jones said again.
Jessop looked mystified, but he held out his hands.
‘Scabs,’ Jones observed as he looked at the hands. ‘Recent by the look of them, wouldn’t you say?’ he said to his partner.
‘Very,’ Albright agreed. ‘How’d you get them, Mr Jessop?’
Jessop shrugged. ‘Get ’em all the time, don’t I?’ he said. ‘Can’t avoid it in this job, lifting crates, messing about with tools. Why? What’s this all about anyway?’
‘We can talk about that down at the station,’ Jones said. ‘Get in the car.’ He nodded to where a car was parked a short distance away.
But Jessop was shaking his head. ‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘I’m not going anywhere with you. I haven’t done anything, so—’
‘It’s your choice,’ Albright said, moving closer. His voice hardened. ‘Consider yourself under arrest, Mr Jessop. Now, turn around facing the van and put your hands behind your back and listen carefully while my colleague cautions you.’
Jessop hesitated. He wasn’t averse to a scrap, provided the odds were in his favour, but he didn’t like the look of them in this case. Both Jones and Albright looked as if they could take very good care of themselves – and him if it came to it. He turned to face the van and put his hands behind his back.
Molly was about to leave for the day when Paget stopped her in the corridor. ‘Ah, Forsythe,’ he said, ‘glad I caught you. Come with me. I’m about to interview Albert Jessop, and since you are familiar with the situation in the Jessop household, I’d like you to sit in.’
Albert Jessop slouching in his seat, arms folded across his chest, stared sullenly at Paget. ‘So I was seen by a nosy neighbour,’ he sneered. ‘I do live there, you know. My wife and kids live there, so why shouldn’t I be there, eh? Tell me that.’
‘But you haven’t been living there for some time, have you?’ Paget said. ‘According to the people we’ve been speaking to, you spend more time with a woman by the name of Lucy Gilbert than you do at home. Is that not right, Mr Jessop?’
‘So?’ Jessop said truculently. ‘Sharon’s still my wife and they’re still my kids, so I have every right to be there. It’s not a crime.’
Paget took several large glossy photographs of Sharon Jessop’s battered face and upper body from an envelope and placed them in front of Jessop. ‘But attempted murder is a crime,’ he said quietly, ‘so I suggest you start taking this interview seriously, because that is what you will be charged with unless you can convince me otherwise.’
‘Bloody hell!’ Jessop’s eyes suddenly widened in shock as he stared at the photographs. ‘Christ, no! You’re not fitting me up for that! I barely touched her – more of a push, like. She didn’t even fall over. Oh, no, you’re not having me for that!’
‘You were seen,’ said Paget flatly. ‘People in the street saw you there. You ransacked the house looking for money, but there wasn’t any money, was there? No money because your wife had lost her job. So you took it out on her. Beat her unconscious, then just left her there on the floor to die.’
But Jessop was shaking his head violently from side to side. ‘I didn’t do that!’ he burst out. ‘I might have slapped her once or twice, but not like that, for Christ’s sake!’ His eyes narrowed as he jabbed a grimy finger at the pictures. ‘They’re fake!’ he said shrilly. ‘Have to be, because she was all right when I left. You bastards! You’ve tarted them up to make it look worse than it is,’ he accused. ‘Well it won’t bloody work, mate, and I’m not saying another word until I see a solicitor.’ He sat back in the chair and folded his arms. ‘And you can take those fake pictures with you and stuff them, because I know she didn’t look like that when I left her.’
‘So, what do you think, Forsythe?’ Paget asked as they made their way back to what had now become an incident room with the death of Roger Corbett. ‘Was that all bluster or do we have the wrong man?’
‘I have to admit it was a good performance,’ Molly told him. ‘He seemed to be genuinely shaken by those pictures, but I don’t think Sharon was lying when she told me it was Jessop who beat her up. And, as you said yourself, sir, he admits to being there, even admits to “slapping her”, as he put it, and judging by the bruises on Sharon’s arms, I’m sure he’s done this sort of thing before. I think he just lost it when he realized there was no money and not much chance of getting any since Sharon had lost her job. Thank God the kids weren’t there.’
Paget nodded. ‘I think you’re right,’ he said. ‘But just to be on the safe side, I’d like you to have another chat with Sharon Jessop to see if she remembers anything else about what happened that night. If she sticks to her story we’ll charge him and hold him.’
‘The trouble is,’ Molly said, ‘he’ll probably make bail and be out on the street by noon tomorrow. I just hope he doesn’t do a runner.’
‘Do you think he might?’
Molly shrugged. ‘I really don’t know that much about him,’ she said candidly. ‘Everything I’ve heard comes from Sharon, her father, and her friend, Rachel from years ago, but none of it is good.’
‘And yet he doesn’t have any form to speak of,’ Paget observed, ‘so either he is more clever than he appears to be or he’s telling the truth.’
‘Frankly, sir,’ said Molly sceptically, ‘I’m not sure I could agree with you on either of those options. Did you see the size of his hands? And the scars on them?’
‘I did,’ said Paget, ‘but you have to bear in mind the kind of work he does.’
Molly remained silent, but it was clear she wasn’t convinced.
Marion Alcott died in her sleep ten minutes before midnight. Thomas Alcott, dozing in the chair beside the bed, came awake, only vaguely aware at first that something had changed.
Still only half awake, he listened. Faint, hushed voices came from the nurses’ station down the hall, but inside the room . . . The rhythmic, rasping sound he’d become accustomed to was gone. He found himself holding his own breath as he struggled to his feet and leaned over the bed. His wife’s hand with the intravenous needle taped to it lay still on top of the covers. He took her hand gently in his own, and only then was he able to bring himself to look at her face.
Perhaps it was the tears in his eyes that distorted his vision, but the face he saw was that of the girl he’d married more than thirty years ago, so young, so vibrant, so full of life and so full of love.
He whispered her name, then, for the first time in many years, he knelt beside the bed and prayed.