by Frank Smith
‘I’m sure there will,’ she said. ‘Would you like me to come along?’
‘No. Thank you, Grace. I can take it from here.’ He stood up. ‘And thanks again for coming in.’
Grace scrambled to her feet and smoothed her skirt. ‘No trouble,’ she said again. She paused at the door. ‘Perhaps you would let me know how it turns out at the bank?’ she ventured. ‘I’d rather like to know.’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’ll be talking to Charlie, and he can fill you in.’
She smiled her thanks. That hadn’t been exactly what she’d meant.
* * *
Lenny Smallwood didn’t dare go back to Tania’s house. Not that her mother wanted him there in any case, but she didn’t have much say in it. Tania would soon put her in her place. Perhaps, he thought, it had been Tania’s mum who’d shopped him. Maybe that’s why that bloke had come snooping round. He wouldn’t put it past her. Bloody old slag!
The question still remained: where to go? He’d spent the afternoon riding round the countryside, considering it to be safer than staying in Broadminster where he might be spotted. But now it was getting dark and he needed a bed for the night, and he daren’t go back to his own house where they might be watching for him.
Bernie’s. That was it. Bernie would put him up. He could sleep in the back of the shop where Bernie rebuilt bikes. He’d bought the bike from Bernie; the least Bernie could do was put him up for a night or two until he could work out what to do. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could hit Bernie up for a snort. Just to tide him over.
It was almost dark by the time Lenny rolled the bike into the yard. The shop was in darkness but there was a light on upstairs. Lenny propped the bike on its stand, went over to the door and pressed the bell. The bell rang in the shop, but Lenny knew it could be heard upstairs. He rang again, and heard a window raised above him.
‘Whadyawant?’ growled a voice.
He stepped back and looked up. ‘It’s me, Bernie,’ Lenny called, trying to keep his voice down. ‘Lenny Smallwood.’
‘So?’
‘I – I could use some help. Can you come down?’
There was no reply, but the window went down. Lenny waited nervously. Suddenly a bolt slid back, a key turned in the lock and the door opened.
Bernie Striker was a big man. Heavy. Round face, small eyes, and a crinkly beard that began at his ears and finished somewhere in the middle of his massive chest. Silhouetted against a feeble light, he looked enormous.
‘Smashed up the bike, I suppose?’ he said, glancing around. ‘Can’t say I’m surprised.’ He caught sight of the bike and scowled. ‘What’s this?’ he demanded, fixing his eyes on Lenny.
‘It’s n-not the bike, Bernie,’ Lenny stammered. ‘It’s me. I need a place to kip for the night. Any old place. The back of the shop. I can sleep on the floor.’
Bernie shook his head. ‘Bugger off home,’ he said, and began to shut the door.
Lenny’s hand shot out to hold the door. ‘Please, Bernie,’ he pleaded. ‘Just for tonight. I – I’ll be gone early in the morning. Before you open the shop, I swear. Please, Bernie.’
The big man sighed heavily and shook his head as if to say he was acting against his better judgement. ‘Better come in, then,’ he told Lenny. ‘You in trouble?’ he demanded as he rebolted the door.
‘Not with the police,’ said Lenny quickly.
‘Who, then?’
Lenny avoided the big man’s eyes, but Bernie was waiting for an answer, and you didn’t keep Bernie waiting. ‘It’s a misunderstanding, that’s all,’ he said. ‘It’s not my fault. Over a bit of money. Like I said, it’s not my fault.’
Bernie’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who?’
Lenny shrugged and tried to smile to show he wasn’t worried. ‘Archie Stern,’ he said weakly. ‘He…’
‘Stern?’ Bernie fairly bellowed the name. ‘Jesus Christ!’
‘It – it’s nothing, really,’ Lenny stammered. ‘Honest, Bernie. He’s going to get his money. It’s just that…’
‘I don’t want to know,’ the big man said. He eyed Lenny for a long moment. ‘You can kip down over there,’ he said, indicating a corner of the shop behind some half-assembled bikes. ‘But I want you out of here come morning. Understand?’
‘Yeah, Bernie, I understand. And thanks. I won’t forget…’
But Bernie had turned his back, and moments later Lenny heard his heavy tread retreating up the stairs. He looked round the shop. There wasn’t much with which to make a bed. Two pairs of overalls hung behind a door, and there was a bin half full of oily rags.
Lenny ignored the rags. He spread one pair of overalls on the floor and rolled up the other pair to make a pillow. The floor was cold and very hard. He whimpered as he tried to sleep.
* * *
He was falling! Where from he did not know. He just knew that when he landed it would all be over. He smashed into something on his way down, but it was dark and he couldn’t see what it was. Pain shot through his belly and he vomited into the void. Still falling. He fought for breath. Bang! Another jolting hit, this time in his chest. Light! He peered into the darkness, straining to see. Blazing light! He tried to cover his eyes with his arms but they wouldn’t move.
He woke up retching. His whole body was consumed by fire. He couldn’t see.
‘On your feet, Lenny, boy.’ The voice came from behind the light. ‘We’ve got a message for you.’
Lenny groaned. He couldn’t move.
‘Don’t think he heard you,’ said a second voice. ‘Trouble with his ears, I shouldn’t wonder. Need cleaning out.’
A boot crashed into the side of Lenny’s head. For one split second he was grateful, because now he could die and there would be no more pain. Darkness engulfed him. He began the long slide down; to where he did not know, but neither did he care.
He screamed, writhing, choking, gasping for breath as pain such as he’d never known exploded in his head. He screamed again when they pulled him to his feet, then choked as someone stuffed an oily rag half-way down his throat and bundled him through the door.
Upstairs, Bernie watched from behind the curtain as they frogmarched Lenny into the yard and threw him into the back of a waiting car. The two men climbed in after him, and the car pulled out of the yard with hardly a sound. Bernie went downstairs. Cautiously, he opened the double doors at the back of the shop and slipped outside. He moved quietly for such a big man.
He closed the gates, then wheeled Lenny’s bike inside the shop, closing and locking the double doors behind him.
He stood there for a moment, just looking at the bike. It was a nice machine. A few years old, but in good nick. Lenny had looked after it; he’d give the kid that. Stupid little git. Skimming from someone like Archie Stern was just asking for trouble.
Bernie sighed as he picked up a spanner. It seemed a shame, but it had to be done. And the sooner the better. It was too dangerous to leave the bike as it was. He grunted heavily as he squatted down beside the bike and began to strip it down.
* * *
Paget finished the washing up and put everything away. He could have left it for Mrs Wentworth in the morning, but he had little else to do, and he was restless. He wandered through the house. There was nothing worth watching on TV, and he didn’t feel like reading. He felt irritable and ill at ease for no reason.
He dropped into a chair and closed his eyes. But there was a reason, he thought guiltily, and it was right there in his pocket. Patrick’s letter. He would like to see Patrick again. They had shared digs together in the early days, and they had remained friends even after they had gone their separate ways. Not that they had seen a lot of each other after he and Jill were married. But every few months or so, Patrick would come to dinner or they would meet somewhere for a meal. Patrick always had a girl in tow, but he’d made it clear that he was not the marrying kind.
‘A policeman’s wife is not a happy one,’ he used to paraphrase, and Jill would thump him and tell h
im it was time he settled down.
So now, after all these years, he was getting married. It would be nice to see Patrick again – find out about his job in Canada; talk about old times? But be his best man? There was no way. Not without Jill.
Chapter 9
Wednesday – 15 May
‘It’s possible, of course, that Beth Smallwood was killed by a stranger,’ said Paget. ‘But considering what this woman went through that day, I think it is much more likely that she was killed by someone she knew.’
Paget was in Detective Superintendent Thomas Alcott’s office. The chief inspector had spent a restless night, and his face looked pale beneath the fluorescent lights. Outside, the rain bounced off the window sill. The forecast said it would last all day.
Alcott dragged heavily on his cigarette. ‘What about the son? Could he have killed his mother?’
‘He’s certainly well up on the list,’ said Paget. ‘He did run when he saw us and we haven’t been able to find him. Tregalles tracked down the girl, but she claims she hasn’t seen Lenny since yesterday morning.’
Alcott leaned back in his chair and regarded Paget through a veil of smoke. ‘What about this rape?’ he said. ‘Do you think the boy did that as well?’
‘No. Not if Mrs Turvey’s interpretation of events is anything to go by. And the timing’s wrong. Lenny and the girl weren’t in the house that long, and what Mrs Turvey described was an argument that ended when Lenny hit his mother. He and the girl left very soon after that. She could be wrong, of course, but she keeps a pretty close eye on what goes on, so I’m inclined to believe her version of what happened.
‘But Harry Beecham said something interesting. He said that Gresham would never have given his old job to Beth Smallwood unless she agreed to sleep with him. And in view of Starkie’s findings…’
Alcott shook his head impatiently. ‘He’s hardly likely to say anything good about the man who’d just sacked him, is he?’ he said. ‘Beecham had just lost his job, and it’s been given to a junior. He thought she was his friend and now he believes she stabbed him in the back. He’s lashing out.’
‘That’s not quite the way it came across to me,’ said Paget. ‘According to Starkie, someone had sex with Beth Smallwood, and not all that long before she was killed. And Rachel Fairmont said Beth didn’t leave work until everyone else had gone, which was after five. Mrs Turvey estimated that Beth Smallwood arrived home around six, which is consistent with the bus schedules. I have someone checking with the driver who was on that run that day to see if we can confirm that. Lenny didn’t arrive until around seven, and he was only in the house some fifteen or twenty minutes, again according to Mrs Turvey.’
Paget hitched his chair closer to Alcott’s desk as he made his next point. ‘The Reverend Parslow says he rang Mrs Smallwood just before eight, and he seemed to think she was having her tea when he called. But Starkie says her stomach was virtually empty. In his opinion she hadn’t eaten for some time, possibly since breakfast. So when did this sexual attack, encounter, or whatever it was, take place? Starkie believes it occurred during the afternoon. And where was she in the afternoon? At work.’
He sat back and waited while Alcott stubbed out the cigarette. The superintendent’s face was deeply lined, and his skin was sallow. His eyes, deep-set astride a narrow nose, moved constantly as if afraid of missing something. And in repose, the corners of his mouth turned down, giving the impression that he was perpetually dissatisfied.
‘That’s a very tenuous connection,’ he said brusquely, ‘and it may or may not have anything to do with the murder. We know nothing of this woman’s sex life; she may have been having it off with almost anyone.’
‘We’ve turned up nothing either at her house or at the bank to suggest that she had a social life of any sort, let alone a sex life,’ said Paget, but Alcott brushed that aside.
‘Arthur Gresham is a respected member of the community,’ he said firmly. ‘His wife is the niece of an earl, and quite wealthy in her own right. I happened to meet her some years ago when my youngest daughter wanted a dog. Lilian Gresham breeds Shetland Sheepdogs, and she judges at county dog shows.
‘On the other hand, it looks to me as if you need to find the son. The fact that this Lenny took off like greased lightning when he saw you suggests guilt. Perhaps he went into the church to carry on his argument with his mother, and things got out of hand.’
‘That, too, is possible,’ Paget said carefully, ‘but from what I’ve heard about the boy, something doesn’t add up. He doesn’t strike me as the type to go fiddling around with candlesticks after he’d used one of them to kill his mother. My impression of him is that he might know enough to wipe his prints off, but after that he’d drop the candlestick and run. The same reasoning applies if it was a simple case of robbery by someone as yet unknown.’
Alcott lit another cigarette. ‘Beecham had a motive,’ he pointed out. ‘You said he claimed he didn’t go to the church, but that seems unlikely, considering the state he was in, especially when he had to pass it on his way home.’
‘It seems unlikely to me, too,’ Paget agreed, ‘but I have no proof he’s lying.’
The phone on Alcott’s desk rang. He reached out for it but held his hand in check. ‘Anything else?’ he enquired. Paget shook his head. ‘Right. Keep me informed, then. And don’t waste your time on Gresham. Concentrate on Beecham and Lenny Smallwood. Chances are it’s one of them.’
* * *
The incident room that had been set up first thing Tuesday morning was on the ground floor directly below Paget’s own office, and he made his way there now.
Sergeant Ormside was the man in charge, and Paget found him sorting through a stack of paper several inches thick. Len Ormside had a talent for gathering and co-ordinating information. He knew the name of every copper from the highest to the low, but his greatest strength lay in his knowledge of the local district and its people.
The sergeant was a thin, sharp-featured man with ginger hair. His movements were slow and measured, but his mind was quick, and he took no guff from anyone no matter what their rank.
‘Morning, Mr Paget,’ he greeted the chief inspector as he pulled a sheet of paper from the pile in front of him. ‘We’ve got some good news and some bad news on Lenny Smallwood. The good news is that we’ve found him; the bad news is that he’s in hospital. Somebody did a very professional job on him: concussion; fractured wrist; internal injuries, as yet undetermined; fractured jaw; and multiple lacerations. He’s in the operating room now, and it seems unlikely that we’ll be able to talk to him for some time.’
Paget sat down beside the desk. ‘Where was he found?’
‘A farmer found him in a lane about five miles up the Clunbridge road shortly before six this morning. He told the ambulance people he thought the boy had been run over, but the doctor who examined Lenny when he was brought into Casualty said he was certain he’d been beaten. He reckoned Lenny had been thrown out of a car when they were finished with him.’
‘We have someone with him at the hospital?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Anything else?’
‘We’re trying to trace the sister, assuming she exists, but no luck so far. I’ve got a list of telephone numbers and addresses Charlie’s people took from Mrs Smallwood’s house – address book, numbers scribbled on calendars and suchlike. They are all being checked out. Starkie was asking about formal identification of the body for the records, but I told him it might take a while, what with young Lenny out of the picture. I suppose we could get the manager of the bank to do it.’
‘No.’ Somehow the thought of Arthur Gresham identifying the body of Beth Smallwood went against the grain. Perhaps it wasn’t rational, but Paget rebelled at the idea. ‘At least, not at this time,’ he went on, seeing the question in the sergent’s eyes. ‘Let’s try to find a relative. Anything else?’
‘Not really. Forensic say they are swamped with work, but they’ll let us know as soon as
they have anything.’
‘Right. Now, I’d like you to find out what you can about Beecham and his wife. Beecham claims they’ve had no social life whatsoever since his wife’s been ill, but someone must know something about them. Helen Beecham used to be a pretty good artist. Some of her artist friends may have kept in touch, so you might try that line of enquiry.’
Paget put on his coat. ‘I’m going back to the bank with the material Grace Lovett found at the house yesterday, and to see if I can get more background on Beecham and Mrs Smallwood. And I’ll call in at the hospital on my way back to find out how Lenny Smallwood’s doing.
‘Oh, yes. One other thing. Have Tregalles bring in Lenny’s girlfriend, Tania Costello. Now that Lenny is in a critical condition, she might be a bit more helpful. Chances are she knows who did this to him. Tell Tregalles to lean on her if he has to. Does she have any form?’
‘Soliciting,’ Ormside said. ‘Started when she was thirteen. Nothing in the past six months. Either she’s off the game or she’s learned to keep her head down.’
‘How old is she now?’
‘Seventeen.’
There were so many like her out there, thought Paget, and not a hope in hell of ever getting them off the streets. But that particular problem, as always, would have to wait; he had more pressing matters to attend to at the moment.
* * *
Tony Rudge slipped into the room and closed the door behind him. He moved swiftly to the old-fashioned desk and sat down behind it. This was his father’s office, and even though he knew his father was in town this morning, Tony’s palms were sweaty as he began to rummage through the pigeon-holes.
He was nervous and excited. Not just because he was going through his father’s records, but because he knew who had killed Lenny Smallwood’s mum. He knew! – and he could hardly contain himself.
And now he was going to do something about it. This was his big chance, and by God he was going to take it.
