by Frank Smith
‘You’re sure you neither saw nor heard anyone else in the church that night?’
‘No. There was no one; I’m sure of that.’
‘But you said yourself that you were asleep until Tony woke you and said you had to get out of there, so someone could have been in the church without your knowledge.’
‘I suppose,’ she said dubiously. ‘Are you saying you believe him?’
Paget didn’t answer directly. ‘Tell me, could you hear if someone was, say, having an argument in the church while you were in that room in the belfry?’
‘No. You can’t hear anything either way. That’s why it was so good for us. Nobody could hear us, and with the door locked and that sign about the tower being unsafe, we didn’t have to be quiet.’
‘What about the main door? It’s pretty heavy. Could you hear that if it banged shut?’
‘Oh, yes. You can hear that,’ the girl agreed. ‘It sort of echoes; sort of goes “boom,” if you know what I mean. But you can’t hear voices.’
‘Right. Now, Amy, I know it must be painful for you, but I’d like you to try to remember everything you saw or heard when you first entered that railway shed. You said you thought you were just going in to pick up an envelope. Did you have any idea that someone might be there?’
‘I shouldn’t have gone in if I’d thought there was someone in there,’ Amy said emphatically. ‘I was dead scared as it was.’
‘So take me through the steps again. You went inside and used the torch. What did you see?’
‘Just an empty shed. Well, bits and pieces of old machinery; that sort of thing.’
‘And…?’
‘This big old metal thing where Tony said the envelope would be, and it was. It was stuck on tight, so I had to really pull hard to get it off. And it wouldn’t go into my pocket because the tape kept sticking to my clothes.’
‘So you had the envelope in your hand? Is that right?’
‘Yes. That’s when I heard a noise.’ Amy gave an involuntary shiver.
‘What sort of noise?’
‘I don’t know. Just a noise.’
‘All right. Then what happened?’
‘I tried to see what it was, but that’s when he shone this big torch in my eyes, and I couldn’t see a thing. Then he hit me with this metal thing alongside the head, and…’
‘You said “metal thing”. You didn’t say that before. How do you know it was metal? Did you see it?’
Amy frowned, trying to concentrate. ‘I just saw this sort of glint as it came down, and I tried to stop it … Yes! That’s right. I remember, now. I tried to grab hold of it. It was cold and hard. It was metal, like a bar.’
‘Flat? Round?’
‘Flat – I think. I’m not sure. Sorry.’
‘It’s all right, Amy. You’re doing very well. What else do you remember?’
‘I went down. I thought my head was split. He had another go and hit me on the shoulder, and he was swearing like…’ Amy stopped in mid-sentence, and her eyes opened wide. ‘I’d forgotten that,’ she breathed. ‘He was lashing out and swearing because he’d missed me.’
‘Did you recognize the voice? Think, now. Was it Tony’s voice?’
Amy closed her eyes and remained silent as she relived that moment of the attack. Her eyes flew open. ‘It wasn’t Tony,’ she said with something like relief. ‘I’m sure it wasn’t Tony.’ Tears trickled down her face as she began to cry.
‘He did set you up, though,’ Paget reminded her. He didn’t want her to have any illusions about Tony Rudge. ‘Please go on.’
Amy sniffed loudly and wiped away the tears with her hands. ‘That’s when I reckoned my only chance was to knock him off balance so’s I could run,’ she said. ‘So I butted him as hard as I could and ran like hell.’
Her memory of events after that was confused and hazy until she woke up in hospital, and Paget didn’t press her. She was tiring, so he thanked her warmly and asked if there was anything she needed.
‘No, thanks,’ she said. ‘Besides, my mum will be here soon, and she’s bringing some things.’
‘How is your mother taking all this? It must have been very hard on her, not knowing where you were.’
Amy shot him a glance that was a mixture of guilt and impishness. ‘She didn’t half give me what for last night,’ she said, ‘but then she cried and she’s coming in this morning, so I reckon it’ll be all right.’
He couldn’t help but like the girl, he thought as he left the room. She’d been extremely foolish, and she was damned lucky to be alive, but she was a plucky little thing. He just hoped she’d learned her lesson.
Before leaving the floor, Paget sought out Rose once again and asked about Helen Beecham.
‘She’s down in C Ward, now,’ she told him. C Ward was the hospital’s psychiatric section. ‘They moved her down there last night for observation after they caught her trying to sneak out. Said she had to get home to her husband because he’d be wanting his tea.’
Paget thought of the free spirit portrayed in the charcoal sketch, and compared it to the image of the woman he’d seen standing at the kitchen sink. What Beecham had done to her filled him with revulsion, and he hoped Forensic would find sufficient evidence of his crimes to put the man away for a very long time.
He was about to leave when another thought occurred to him. ‘Tell me, Rose, when did Dr McMillan come back to work here?’
Rose thought for a moment. ‘About a month ago,’ she said. ‘Mr Stone’s been trying for months to get a registrar to work with him in orthopaedics, but he couldn’t find anyone who was interested.’ Rose lowered her voice. ‘Between you and me, Mr Paget, I’m not surprised; he’s a miserable old devil and so demanding that there’s not many who’ll work with him, but he is a brilliant consultant. So, he went to see Dr McMillan and persuaded her to come back to work with him.’
Rose grinned. ‘She has his measure,’ she chuckled. ‘She doesn’t stand any nonsense from him, and he’s been a lot easier to work with since she came back. And she’s got herself a good teacher. I hope she stays.’
So did he, thought Paget. So did he.
Chapter 24
The incident room was silent. The investigation into the death of Beth Smallwood had, to all intents and purposes, ground to a halt. Any information that did come in would be handled by the regular Sunday staff, and anything urgent would be relayed immediately to the appropriate officer.
Paget sat in Ormside’s chair and stared disconsolately at the wall-charts linking and cross-referencing names, dates, times, alibis and movements. Beecham was certainly the prime suspect, but Tony Rudge came in a close second, and Terry Ling could not be dismissed. Ling was clever and he’d had a rough time of it since leaving Hong Kong. Now, with the imminent arrival of his first child, he may have felt that Beth Smallwood’s promotion was the last straw. He claimed he did not know where Farrow Lane was, but that could be a lie. On the other hand, how would he know that Beth was in the church that night, and not at home?
So much depended upon what the lab could tell them, and some of that information might not be available for several days.
But as far as Paget was concerned, there were still some disturbing questions to be answered, starting with the autopsy report. Beth Smallwood had been sexually assaulted several hours prior to her death, and no matter how he reconstructed events, Paget couldn’t help but conclude that the assault had taken place at the bank.
Beth’s behaviour, as Ginny Holbrook had described it, did not sound like that of someone who had just been promoted, although Rachel Fairmont seemed to think that Beth had simply been overwhelmed by the sudden turn of events. The bus driver who had picked Beth up outside the bank had thought she was ill.
Gresham had made a point of telling Paget how emotional and high-strung Beth was, but that could have been a deliberate attempt to forestall questions that might arise concerning her behaviour after she left his office. Beecham had made no bones about how he b
elieved Beth had got his old job, but anything that man said was suspect now. Terry Ling had said that Beth had been promoted because she was a woman, but had backed off when asked to explain, while Ginny Holbrook had said – after he’d backed her into a corner – that Gresham couldn’t keep his hands to himself, and she and the other women at the bank used to have a ‘bit of a giggle’ over Gresham’s pursuit of Beth Smallwood.
Put all that together, and it seemed to Paget that Beth had indeed paid Gresham’s price for her promotion. But not all that willingly, according to Starkie’s findings.
And how had Gresham known that Beth wouldn’t be in on Tuesday morning? Neither Beth nor Rachel had phoned Gresham’s house, according to Lilian Gresham, so how did he know that Beth had phoned Rachel?
Also, there was Gresham’s statement regarding his whereabouts on Monday evening. He’d made it sound as if he’d spent most of the evening visiting his father, but Claude had admitted falling asleep, so there was no telling what time Gresham had left there. Broadminster was not a big town; you could drive from Golden Meadows to St Justin’s church in less than ten minutes. The question was: why would Gresham do that? And how would he know where to find Beth? She couldn’t have told him earlier because she didn’t know that she would be at the church until Parslow telephoned her at home.
Unless Rachel had told him of the phone call. But if that were the case, how had she managed to get in touch with him? Arthur Gresham did not have a phone in his car, nor did he carry a pocket pager; Paget had already checked into that. And why had Gresham arrived late that Tuesday morning? His wife had said he left early for a meeting, which might explain his late arrival at the bank if the meeting had been held elsewhere. But if that were the case, why had Rachel Fairmont – Gresham’s own secretary – known nothing about it?
Paget thought about Alcott’s warning, and hesitated – but not for long. Gresham was hiding something. It might or might not have a bearing on Beth Smallwood’s death, but Paget wouldn’t be satisfied until he had the answer.
* * *
‘I must apologize for coming round on a Sunday,’ Paget said as Rachel Fairmont ushered him into the room. ‘I hope I’m not interfering with anything?’
‘No. No, it’s all right. It’s just that your call rather took me by surprise, that’s all. It being the weekend, I mean.’ Rachel turned to face him, then simply stood there as if not quite sure what to do next. She looked, Paget thought, as if she had dressed hastily, and her hair was slightly damp. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked hopefully.
‘Only if you were about to have one yourself,’ said Paget.
‘I think I will make some,’ she said. ‘Please sit down.’ She picked up a damp towel from the back of a chair, and left the room before Paget could reply.
The flat was one of a block of twelve behind a shopping precinct on the south side of King George Way. The room was small but tastefully furnished. Rachel Fairmont had a good eye for colour and style, and she had made the most of the space, although it seemed to Paget that the emphasis was on style rather than comfort.
He sat down in an overstuffed chair as Rachel re-entered the room carrying a tray. She set the tray on a low table, poured the tea, then pulled up an ottoman and sat down facing him, hands clasped around her knees.
She looked so different from the secretary he’d first seen at the bank. Gone was the tailored look of blouse and skirt and the carefully made-up face; gone, too, was the severe hair-style that made her face look fuller than it really was. The Rachel Fairmont who faced him across the table looked more feminine. Instead of a blouse, she wore a bulky, oatmeal-coloured sweater that fell in loose folds around her hips, and a denim skirt that all but covered her long bare legs and open-toed sandals. Her hair fell in gentle folds around her face and rested on her shoulders, softening the lines and making her look younger than he’d first thought. And there was something different about her eyes. Of course! She’d been wearing glasses at the office, and now she wore none. Contacts, perhaps?
This Rachel Fairmont was a very attractive woman.
Rachel coloured slightly beneath his gaze and shrugged an apology. ‘Sorry I look such a mess,’ she said. ‘My hair isn’t quite dry from the shower.’
‘Not at all,’ said Paget. ‘I’m afraid I did call at a bad time after all. I could come back again later if you’d rather.’
‘No, really, it’s all right,’ she assured him. Rachel picked up her cup and sipped her tea. But her eyes were watchful as she looked at him over the rim of the cup.
‘Have you lived here long?’ he asked by way of opening the conversation.
‘Six years.’ A slight frown creased her brow. ‘Why do you ask?’
He smiled. ‘No particular reason,’ he said. ‘Just curiosity. I’m afraid it’s an occupational disease. Asking questions.’
A token smile touched Rachel’s face, but it was gone almost as soon as it appeared. ‘I’m not quite sure why you’re here,’ she said hesitantly. ‘I really don’t know how I can help you.’
‘I’d like you to think back to the conversation you had with Beth Smallwood when she rang last Monday evening,’ he said. ‘I know I asked you about it before, but I’d appreciate it if you would go over it again for me. What time did you say it was when she rang?’
Her brows drew together. ‘I’m pretty sure it was very close to eight o’clock. I didn’t know who it was at first – Beth sounded so strange. But then she explained that she’d bitten her tongue when she fell, and it was hard for her to talk.’
‘And what exactly did she say?’
‘Just that she wouldn’t be in to work the next day, and she asked me to tell Mr Gresham in the morning.’
‘Did she say why she was ringing you rather than Mr Gresham?’
Rachel frowned. ‘No – at least I don’t remember if she did. She may have tried to reach him and couldn’t. I didn’t think to ask.’
‘Do you recall anything else she said, now that you’ve had more time to think about it?’
‘No. As I said, it was hard for her to talk, so she wasn’t on long.’
Paget gave a small sigh. ‘I must admit I’m having trouble getting a clear picture of Beth Smallwood,’ he confided. ‘I know you said you never did really get to know her, but you must have formed some impressions. What sort of person was she? Did you ever visit her at home? Did she ever come here?’
Rachel looked off into the distance for a long moment, then slowly shook her head. ‘I wish I could help you, Chief Inspector,’ she said. ‘I know it sounds strange, but I can’t say I knew Beth at all. She kept very much to herself, and –’ Rachel broke off and looked down at her hands – ‘I’m afraid I’m rather like that myself, so we just seemed to go our separate ways when we left work.’
‘But you must have talked at work now and again. Over coffee; at lunch time. Did she ever mention any friends outside of work? Anyone she’d met, perhaps?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Steady worker, was she? I mean, she wasn’t one who took a lot of time off during business hours or anything like that?’
‘No.’ Rachel seemed puzzled by the question. ‘I can’t remember the last time Beth took any time off even when she wasn’t feeling well.’
‘And she was there at the bank all day Monday?’
‘Yes.’
‘She didn’t, for example, have an extra long lunch hour or slip out for an hour sometime during the day?’
Rachel seemed mystified by the question. ‘No. The only time I ever remember Beth taking time off was when she was having her teeth done a year or so ago. And she hardly ever went out at lunch time; she always brought her lunch with her and ate it at her desk.’ Rachel hesitated as if uncertain about how what she was about to say would be taken. ‘You see, Beth was – I was about to say “conscientious”, but I think it had more to do with the fear of losing her job. That threat has been hanging over all our heads for months, now, but Beth seemed particularly
concerned because of her son.’
‘So she did talk about her son, then?’
‘Well, not really, but one picks up the odd bits and pieces.’ Rachel wrinkled her nose. ‘My impression of her son was that he was little better than a layabout, always sponging off his mother, but I would never have said that to Beth. She doted on the boy.’
‘Have you met him? Was he ever at the bank?’
‘No. I’ve heard the rumours of course, but that’s all.’
‘Rumours?’
Rachel looked uncomfortable. ‘I feel as if I’m telling tales out of school,’ she said, ‘but someone said that the real reason she’d been away that time was not because of her teeth, but because she’d had to go to court. Lenny had been in some scrape or other, but I don’t know the details.’
‘Do you recall who told you that?’
‘No. And come to think of it, I’m not sure now whether I heard it at work or read something in the local paper. Sorry.’
Paget sipped his tea in silence for a moment. ‘Can you describe what Beth Smallwood was wearing that last day at the bank?’
Rachel gave him an odd look as if trying to decide whether the question was a serious one or not. ‘She was wearing a dark blue dress – very dark; almost black – with a V-neck insert covered with tiny –’ she hesitated – ‘daisies, I think. It had buttons to the waist, and I think there was a belt.’ Her brows drew together. ‘Yes, there was. It was the same colour as the dress. She wore that dress quite often…’ She stopped and caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound … I just meant that – well, Beth wasn’t very well off for clothes.’
‘No need to apologize. I understand,’ he assured her.
