by Frank Smith
He’d hung around the office yesterday, hoping his father would leave, but all he’d managed to do was make his father angry. ‘Got nothing better to do than hang about the place, have you, lad? Bone bloody idle, you are. That back lawn needs cutting, and the potting shed needs clearing, so go on, get on with it. You are in my care, remember.’
As if he were likely to forget. That was one of the conditions of his release: that he work for his father at the guest house until his time was up. Cheap labour – that suited his father very well, Tony thought bitterly. And he still had months to go before he’d be free. After that, he’d be off to London; look up Chalky White. Chalky should be out by then, and he’d told Tony to come and see him. Things would be different then.
They could be different after tonight, as well, he thought, if only he could find what he was looking for. A lot different. This time he would do it on his own. No partners. No one to let him down. No one like Lenny Smallwood. It had been a sad day when he’d teamed up with Lenny, although they’d done all right at first, breaking into houses. Small stuff, easy to carry, easy to unload. There was this bloke who came in from Wolverhampton with his van once a week. He’d give them a list of things he needed next time round and they’d steal to order.
But that wasn’t good enough for Lenny because by then he was snorting coke and he needed more and more money just to buy the stuff. He became careless, and that’s when things went wrong.
On this particular day, Lenny was supposed to be keeping watch, but when Tony went upstairs Lenny plunked himself down in a big armchair, took a snort of coke, and sat watching telly. Unaware that Lenny wasn’t keeping watch, Tony was on his way downstairs, arms full of loot, when the owner walked in and saw him. He was a big man, and there was nowhere for Tony to go. They both just stood there, each as startled as the other. The man didn’t notice Lenny slumped in the chair behind him.
Tony was rooted to the spot, waiting for the inevitable to happen. He’d never been caught before, so chances were he’d get off with nothing more than a slap on the wrist. It wouldn’t be that bad, he told himself. But he’d reckoned without Lenny. The idiot had snatched up a heavy ornament and hit the man on the head with it. The man went down like a stone, and Tony was too paralysed with fear to run.
But Lenny wasn’t. He was already on his way out the back when a second man entered the house. He grabbed Tony and slammed him down so hard he’d broken three ribs, then held him while he telephoned the police.
Fortunately, the owner of the house recovered, but it was touch and go for a few days. The police made it very clear to Tony that if he didn’t give them the name of his accomplice, he could be gone for a very long time indeed. Tony had no qualms about grassing on his partner. Lenny was a nutter; he deserved to be locked up.
But Lenny got off with probation. Even thinking about it now made Tony angry. The bastard had got off, thanks to his mum lying her head off about where he was that night. And since neither man had actually seen Lenny, the only thing the police could charge him with was receiving stolen goods – goods from other robberies he’d been foolish enough to keep at home.
Tony scowled. Well, Lenny’s mum had copped it good and proper. Serve her right. He felt no pity for her.
But what he needed now was a name. He knew the face. Knew where he’d seen it before, but he needed a name, and it should be here somewhere.
Bills, receipts, bookings, letters. Angrily, Tony shoved them back again. He looked down. The filing drawers. Probably in there. He tried the right-hand drawer and found it full of odds and ends: a stapler, three-hole punch, books, a tube of glue, and a batch of empty file-holders. The left-hand drawer was locked, but Tony remembered seeing keys in the shallow middle drawer.
The first one he tried opened the drawer. He found what he was looking for in a file three-quarters of the way back. The document was stapled together with half a dozen others, and the name he wanted was there at the bottom of the page. And legible, thank God! Tony could hardly contain himself as he put the file back in the drawer.
The telephone directory was on the top of the desk. Tony opened it and searched through the pages. Yes! There it was. He closed the book with shaking fingers. Now, all he had to do was set his plan in motion.
Chapter 10
Arthur Gresham stared at the documents, then slowly shook his head. ‘I can’t believe it,’ he said. ‘Beth Smallwood, of all people.’ He directed a sharp look over the top of his glasses at Paget. ‘This one is dated the twentieth,’ he said. ‘The day she was promoted! My God! She sat there in that chair, and…’ He broke off, removed his glasses and began to polish them. ‘She betrayed me,’ he ended petulantly.
Oh, how she must have been chuckling up her sleeve when he told her she was to be in charge. The thought of what might have happened made Gresham’s blood run cold. Thank God it hadn’t gone any further. As it was, there would be an audit, but at least nothing concerning Beth Smallwood’s promotion had been committed to paper. There would be enough questions asked by head office as it was without his having to explain that decision.
‘Speaking of that day,’ said Paget, ‘would you mind telling me where you were on Monday evening, sir?’
Gresham looked startled by the question and colour began to rise around his collar. ‘Where I…? Really, Chief Inspector! I hardly think that has any bearing on your investigation,’ he said coldly.
‘Please don’t misunderstand me, sir,’ said Paget smoothly. ‘No one is suggesting that you had anything to do with Mrs Smallwood’s death. But if she was killed by someone she knew – and we think she was – then the more people we can eliminate from our list, the easier it is for us to concentrate on those who may have been involved. Most people are only too happy to tell us where they were so they can be crossed off the list, as it were.’ He smiled to soften what he was about to say. ‘Unless, of course, they have something to hide.’
Gresham didn’t seem to know quite how to react. ‘I still don’t see the need,’ he huffed, ‘but I suppose there’s no harm in telling you where I was. As it happens, I was visiting my father. He is in Golden Meadows. He had a stroke two years ago, and needs constant supervision. I try to get over there to see him at least once a week.’
‘I see. Do you happen to recall what time that was?’
‘I must have arrived there about seven or just after,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t paying much attention to the time.’
‘And you left when?’
A frown of annoyance crossed Gresham’s face. ‘Shortly before nine. I had an appointment at nine.’
‘With…?’ Paget prompted.
‘Ivor Trent,’ said Gresham irritably. ‘Town Planning. I’d arranged to meet him in the Three Crowns. A business matter.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Paget changed the subject, and asked to see Beth Smallwood’s bank account. Gresham produced a record of a current account that was barely afloat. It peaked on pay-days, Paget noticed, and dwindled to almost nothing by the time the next payday came round. It confirmed the conclusion Paget had come to much earlier: Beth Smallwood had been living hand to mouth in spite of the money she’d stolen from the bank.
There was no record of Lenny Smallwood ever having had an account at the local branch, but a computer search by Rachel Fairmont produced the information that he had one in the Shrewsbury branch, and indeed, the sum of £5000 had passed through the account less than a month ago.
Paget thanked Gresham for his help. ‘And now,’ he said, ‘I’d like to have a word with members of your staff. I’ll take them one at a time, and I shan’t keep them long. Perhaps there’s a room where I could speak to them in private?’
‘I really don’t know what they can tell you that I haven’t told you already,’ Gresham objected. ‘This is all very disruptive, you know. Very unsettling, and we’re short-handed as it is.’
‘I do appreciate that, sir, but I thought it would be preferable to asking everyone to come down to the station to be interviewed.�
��
The thought of having members of his staff parading one by one down to the police station made Gresham shudder. God knows what sort of rumours would be flying around town by the end of the day, and he had enough explaining to do to head office as it was. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Take Harry beecham’s old office. Miss Fairmont will show you where it is.’
‘But Mr Ling is using the office…’ the secretary began, only to be cut off sharply by Gresham. ‘Then he can go back to his own desk until this is over,’ he snapped. ‘It isn’t as if he’s the actual manager, is it?’ He turned back to Paget. ‘And I’d be obliged if you could conclude your business here as soon as possible, Chief Inspector.’
Beecham’s old office was small and cramped. The top of the desk contained the usual telephone and in- and out-trays, and in the very centre of the desk, placed there with precision, was a name-plate made of polished brass. Dark letters stood out boldly: TERRENCE LING. It was the first thing one noticed upon entering the office.
‘Where is Mr Ling?’ Paget asked.
‘I’m not quite sure where he is,’ Rachel confessed, ‘but I expect he will be back shortly.’
‘In that case, please sit down, Miss Fairmont. There are one or two questions I’d like to ask you.’
Rachel sat gingerly on the edge of the chair, hands folded in her lap, and looked expectantly at Paget.
‘Tell me about Mrs Smallwood,’ he said. ‘What sort of person was she?’
Rachel looked thoughtful. ‘Quiet, I suppose,’ she said tentatively. ‘She’s been with the bank for almost eight years, and the last three were spent here in SBLs – Small Business Loans, that is – under Mr Beecham. She was always a very private person. She never talked about herself.’
‘I believe you said Beth Smallwood was still here when you left on Monday afternoon. How did she seem to you at that time?’
‘I think she was probably a bit overwhelmed,’ the woman said slowly. ‘She’d been crying, but then, Beth was always a bit emotional. Actually, I didn’t realize she was still here until one of the girls asked me what was wrong with Beth. So I went into the Ladies to see if she was all right.’
Paget waited expectantly. The silence lengthened between them. ‘What did she say?’ he prompted
Rachel moved uncomfortably in her chair. ‘It was a bit embarrassing, actually,’ she said. ‘I mean, she kept apologizing for the way she looked and for being so silly. She dropped her handbag; spilled everything on the floor and I had to help gather things up for her, and it was at that point I felt it would be better to leave and let her get on with it. It was just reaction, I’m sure.’
Paget made a mental note to have a set of Rachel’s prints forwarded to Forensic, together with a note of explanation regarding any prints they might find on Beth Smallwood’s handbag or its contents. He explained the process carefully to Rachel. ‘You’ve no objection, I trust?’ he ended.
The secretary looked down at her fingers and wrinkled her nose. ‘I suppose not, if it’s really necessary,’ she said, and it occurred to Paget that Rachel was more concerned about ink on her immaculate fingers than she was with the actual surrender of her prints.
‘Were you present when Mr Beecham was dismissed on Monday?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did he take it?’
Rachel looked troubled. ‘Not very well, I’m afraid. To tell you the truth, I think he was still in a state of shock when he left the bank. Mr Gresham and I escorted him to his office – this office – to make sure that he took only his personal belongings with him when he left, then Mr Gresham took his keys and saw him out.’
‘And Beecham had no warning that he was to be let go?’
The secretary shook her head. ‘I know it sounds harsh,’ she said defensively, ‘but it is standard bank policy. Once an employee has been notified that he or she is being – umm – terminated, they must be escorted off the premises immediately. Otherwise they could do enormous damage to the bank if, for example, they decided to change or destroy records in the computer. The computer access codes are changed immediately, of course.’
Paget knew that similar rules applied to anyone dismissed for cause from the Force, but it must have been a hell of a jolt for Beecham, coming as it had straight out of the blue. No warning at all, and a subordinate he considered poor management material taking over his job.
‘Why Beecham? Why not Beth Smallwood, for example?’
Rachel’s slim fingers moved restlessly across her skirt, smoothing imaginary creases. ‘You’ll have to ask Mr Gresham,’ she said primly. ‘I’m sure he had his reasons.’
‘How would you describe the relationship between Mr Beecham and Mrs Smallwood?’ Paget asked.
Rachel considered. ‘They seemed to get along well in the office, and Mr Beecham used to drive Beth home at night. It was on his way, I believe.’
‘Is it possible that they were more than friends?’
Rachel avoided Paget’s eyes. ‘I’m not sure that I … I mean, I don’t know if they were, and now that she’s dead…’ Rachel stumbled to a halt and looked anxiously at Paget. ‘I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong impression, Chief Inspector. I mean, it was just a feeling. Not that you could really blame Harry if there was. It must have been very hard for him all these years with his wife the way she is.’
The secretary moved restlessly in her chair. ‘If there’s nothing else, sir, I should be getting back to my desk.’
‘I won’t keep you long, but tell me again exactly what Beth Smallwood said when she rang you at home on Monday night.’
‘She said she had fallen and hurt herself and she wouldn’t be in the next morning, and she asked me to let Mr Gresham know.’
‘And did you tell Mr Gresham?’
‘Well, no. I didn’t have a chance, did I?’ she said defensively. ‘If you remember, he came in a few minutes late yesterday morning while you were there, and you both went straight into his office.’
‘Ah, yes, of course. Did Beth Smallwood say anything else that you remember?’
‘No, I don’t think so. She was a bit hard to understand. She had trouble talking. She said she’d bitten her tongue when she fell.’
A short, chunky, round-faced man with black hair brushed straight back appeared in the office doorway. He stopped abruptly when he saw Paget sitting there. But it was Rachel Fairmont he addressed.
‘What is this, Miss Fairmont?’ he enquired. ‘Who is this gentleman?’
Paget had no doubt that Terrence Ling knew exactly who he was.
He rose to his feet. ‘Mr Ling?’ he said, and introduced himself. ‘Sorry to be such a nuisance, but with the death of Mrs Smallwood, I know you’ll understand the need. Mr Gresham did say he was sure you wouldn’t mind if I used your office – just for a short time, of course.’
‘Of course.’ That Terrence Ling wasn’t pleased was obvious, but it seemed he was prepared to be courteous. ‘Please continue.’ He began to withdraw, but Paget stopped him.
‘Miss Fairmont is just leaving,’ he said, ‘and I would like to talk to you, if you have a moment? Thank you, Miss Fairmont.’
The man stood aside as Rachel made her escape. ‘Please, come and sit down, Mr Ling. I’m sure you would prefer your own chair.’ Paget began to move out from behind the desk, but Ling insisted that he stay there, and sat down firmly in the seat vacated by Rachel.
Paget returned to his seat. ‘I suppose this unfortunate business has left you with a lot on your plate,’ he said conversationally. ‘It must be difficult to step in at such short notice.’
‘It is not difficult if one is organized and prepared,’ said Ling. He spoke with the precision of one for whom English was not his first language.
‘I’m sure Mr Gresham will be pleased about that,’ said Paget, deliberately probing.
He waited, but Ling remained silent. ‘Well, perhaps we should get to the matter at hand,’ he said. ‘Tell me what you can about Beth Smallwood. I imagine you and she must have
worked quite closely together. What sort of person was she?’
Ling seemed puzzled by the question. ‘Why do you ask me?’ he wanted to know. ‘What has it got to do with her murder?’
‘To be honest, I’m not sure,’ said Paget. ‘But we think it is possible that Mrs Smallwood knew her attacker, so the more we can learn about her, the better. Anything you can tell me may prove useful.’
Terrence Ling thought about that for a moment. ‘She was a nice lady,’ he said, ‘but she was not very good at her job. I would not have had her working for me.’
Paget sat back in the chair. It wasn’t often that people were as forthright as Ling. ‘Go on,’ he said quietly.
Ling shrugged. ‘I assume you wish me to be honest,’ he said. ‘Otherwise, you will have a false picture.’ His tone softened slightly. ‘I am sorry she is dead, but she was not organized in her work. That is not good for business. Not efficient.’
‘And yet she was to have taken over Mr Beecham’s job.’
Ling’s face was impassive. ‘Yes.’
‘So why would Mr Gresham promote someone who, you say, would not do a good job?’
Ling eyed Paget steadily. ‘Because she was a woman,’ he said flatly. ‘And she would do what he wanted.’
Paget was deliberately obtuse. ‘You mean she would toe the line. Follow previous policy. Is that it? Perhaps not be quite as innovative as you might be?’
Ling started to say something, then apparently thought better of it. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s what I mean.’
That was not what Ling meant, thought Paget, but he let it go. ‘Did you see Beth Smallwood leave Mr Gresham’s office Monday afternoon? That is, after she’d been told of her promotion.’
‘No.’
Paget tried another tack. ‘Did Mrs Smallwood have any particular friends here at the bank?’
According to Ling, Beth Smallwood was not close to anyone at the bank, except, perhaps, Harry Beecham. But when Paget asked if Ling thought there might be more to their relationship than friendship, the man said he did not know, and refused to be drawn beyond that.
