by Frank Smith
The pub was becoming crowded. The doors were wide open as more people pushed their way in, bringing with them the midday heat from outside, and suddenly, the hotpot no longer appealed to Paget. He pushed his plate away.
Rogers picked up his glass, then pushed it across the table and said, ‘It’s your shout and I’ll have the same again.’
When Paget returned from the bar with the drink, Rogers was mopping up the gravy with the last of the chips. ‘What was your impression of Sam Bergman?’ Paget asked as he sat down. ‘Any problems with the business at the time? Any problems at home that you knew of?’
Instead of answering the question, Rogers picked up his beer and drank almost half of it before setting it down and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘Sam might have been a bit on the sharp side when it came to business, but murder? No. Poor devil was devastated that day, and it was no act, believe me. Imagine, married nigh on thirty years, and you walk in and see that lot. It’s no wonder the poor sod went to pieces. And if you are suggesting that we didn’t do our job, back then, you’re dead wrong. We investigated every possibility, and I’m telling you, it was a robbery that went wrong, and that’s all it was.’
Paget shook his head. ‘I’m not suggesting anything of the kind,’ he said, ‘but you must remember that the only information I’ve had to go on till now comes from the files, and these are some of the questions that came to mind. So I’m not looking to pick holes in your investigation; I’m looking to you to put me right about some of those questions.’
‘Well . . .’ Rogers eyed Paget suspiciously. ‘So what else do you want to know?’ he asked.
Paget hesitated. ‘I hate to keep going on about this,’ he said, ‘but what about Taylor himself? Were there ever any doubts about why Taylor was in the shop at that time?’
Rogers scowled. ‘What do you mean by “any doubts”?’
Paget avoided a direct answer. ‘How old was Taylor at that time?’
Rogers thought for a moment. ‘Don’t know, exactly. Mid to late forties; something like that. Why?’
‘And Emily Bergman?’
‘About the same. Maybe a couple of years younger.’
‘Attractive?’
Rogers shrugged. ‘Not particularly,’ he said. ‘She was . . .’ He broke off sharply. ‘You’re not listening, are you?’ he said, now visibly annoyed. ‘I keep telling you, it was a robbery that went wrong. Taylor looked in to see if Sam was still there. That’s it. He’d done it many times before. I don’t know what you think you have to gain by making out it was more complicated than it was.’
Undaunted, Paget asked another question. ‘Bergman had a part-time shop assistant, a woman by the name of Loretta Thompson, but she wasn’t there that morning. Do you recall why that was?’
Rogers frowned. ‘As you say, she only worked part-time. They only called her in when things got busy.’
‘Quite a bit younger than Sam Bergman, wasn’t she?’
Rogers sighed. ‘So what are you suggesting now?’ he asked with exaggerated weariness. ‘That there was something going on between Sam and Loretta?’
‘I have no idea,’ said Paget, ‘but I made a few enquiries before I came up here. Did you know that Sam Bergman had married again?’
Rogers eyed him warily. ‘I know he sold his shop and moved away a few months after his wife died. Said he couldn’t bear to be in the place after that. Went somewhere south, I believe; don’t recall where, exactly, but if he’s married again, good luck to him, I say. Happen recently, did it?’
Paget shook his head. ‘Christmas Eve that same year to Loretta Thompson. Less than four months after his wife died. And they didn’t go south; they opened another shop in Cambridge.’
‘I have the results of the tests, and they confirm my own diagnosis, Tom. Marion has COPD, Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease. Emphysema in this case, and it is well advanced. I’m afraid there’s no other way to put it, Tom. Marion is in serious trouble.’
Dr Joseph Miller took off his glasses and began to polish them. He was a tall, stoop-shouldered man, whose grey hair and craggy face made him look older than he really was. He had been the Alcotts’ family doctor for more than twenty years, and they had become friends, at least to the extent where they could talk freely to one another.
The two men were standing at the window at the end of the hospital corridor, looking out across Abbey Road to where the weathered stones of the minster ruins shimmered in the searing rays of the midday sun. A busload of tourists took pictures of one another against the backdrop of the ancient walls, while the driver, clearly bored, leaned against the bus, smoking a cigarette.
It was a pleasant summer scene, but it was wasted on Alcott, preoccupied as he was with what Miller had just told him.
‘And what I would like to know,’ the doctor continued, ‘is why Marion let it go so long before coming to see me? She must have been having trouble for a long time; emphysema isn’t something that comes on suddenly; it takes time to develop, and she must have known something was seriously wrong long before now. The coughing, the wheezing, the shortage of breath. To be brutally honest, Tom, I would have been far less surprised if it had been you with that condition, and from the way you’re going on, that could still happen. God knows I’ve been trying to get you to stop smoking for years, but you wouldn’t listen, and now it seems it’s your wife who is suffering the consequences.’
Alcott bristled. ‘Are you saying it’s my fault she has emphysema?’
Miller shrugged. ‘I’ve been in your house, remember? Who else in your house is a chain smoker? You must have seen what it was doing to her.’
‘I know she’s had this cough she couldn’t seem to get rid of,’ Alcott admitted, ‘but we thought it was probably the after effects of the flu she had last winter.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Tom, it’s July! Or is that something else you didn’t notice?’
Colour rose in Alcott’s face. ‘What about you?’ he demanded. ‘You’re her doctor. You’ve seen her. We have check-ups every year. Surely you would have noticed if there was—?’
‘Marion hasn’t been in to see me for more than two years,’ Miller cut in sharply. ‘She missed last year altogether, and she’s cancelled two appointments so far this year, so don’t try to blame me for Marion’s condition.’
‘It hasn’t affected me,’ Alcott shot back, ‘so why would it affect Marion. She could be allergic to—’
‘Now you are being wilfully blind!’ Miller said scornfully. ‘This has nothing to do with allergies, but it does have everything to do with second-hand smoke, and I wouldn’t be too confident about it not affecting you. Of course it’s affecting you; you know it and I know it, and quite frankly, Tom, I’m getting sick and tired of telling people to stop smoking, have them ignore everything I tell them, then expect some sort of miracle cure when they fall prey to COPD.’
Alcott took a deep breath. ‘So what can be done for Marion?’ he asked. ‘What sort of treatment will she have to take?’
Miller eyed Alcott bleakly. ‘I said it was serious, Tom, and I meant it. The damage to Marion’s lungs is permanent. Lungs don’t recover from something like this; they don’t mend themselves. All we can do is try to alleviate the condition. The muscle spasms may respond to bronchodilators, and there are one or two other things we can do, but she will never be able to breathe properly again, and she must stay away from anyone who has the flu or any other infection.’
‘How long do you think she will be in hospital?’
‘That will be up to Dr Nichols – the consultant who spoke to you yesterday – and how well Marion responds to treatment, but I strongly advise you to find somewhere for her to go other than back to your house. I’m deadly serious about second-hand smoke, Tom. As I said, I’ve been in your house and you may be used to it, but I came out of there with my eyes stinging. The curtains, the carpets, the walls, everything is riddled with it. You must not take Marion back into that
kind of environment. It could kill her.’
‘I’m not even going to ask how your day went,’ Grace said when Paget finally arrived home shortly after six o’clock that evening. ‘I’m glad you phoned when you did, because after listening to the reports of a serious accident on the other side of Shrewsbury, I was beginning to worry. Did you see it?’
‘No, but I was one of several hundred people stuck in a mile-long tailback because of it,’ he said wearily, ‘and it was like an oven in the car. Anyway, it’s good to be home.’
Grace kissed him, then wrinkled her nose. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘It was hot out there, and I think the sooner you get out of those clothes and have a nice cool shower, the better. You said not to bother about dinner, but I held off just in case.’
But Paget was shaking his head. ‘I had a big lunch,’ he told her, ‘so I’m not very hungry, but a cold beer and a sandwich would go down well. Why don’t you go ahead and have your dinner while I have a shower and change?’
‘To tell you the truth, I’m not very hungry either,’ Grace said, ‘so I think I’ll wait and join you. A cold beer and a sandwich sounds just about right. I’ll have them ready when you come down.
‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ she said as he started up the stairs. ‘Mr Alcott phoned. He wants you to call him back on his mobile phone. I have the number. He’s at the hospital. He didn’t say exactly what the problem was, but I gather Marion is quite ill. I told him you might be late in, but he said any time this evening would do.’
When Paget came down again, Grace had prepared a plateful of beef, lettuce and Swiss cheese sandwiches. ‘I thought we might take these outside and sit on the back steps,’ she said as she took two bottles of beer from the fridge. ‘I could be mistaken but I believe I saw a leaf move out there, and I think it’s cooling off a bit.’
‘Good idea,’ Paget agreed, ‘but perhaps I should call Alcott first.’
He came out of the house a few minutes later and sat down beside Grace. ‘Marion Alcott has emphysema,’ he said quietly, ‘and it sounds serious. Alcott sounded pretty worried and said he wants to be with her as much as possible while she’s taking a series of tests, so it may be a while before he comes back to work on a regular basis. In the meantime, he’d like me to keep an eye on things for him. He says he’s cleared it with Chief Superintendent Brock.’
‘Can you do that?’ Grace asked. ‘Aren’t you stretched to the limit as it is?’
A wry smile touched Paget’s lips as he said, ‘No problem, according to Alcott. He said, “Don’t worry, you won’t have much to do. Fiona knows more about that job than either one of us. Just sign your name when she tells you to, and you won’t go far wrong.” And I think he was serious.’
FIVE
Thursday, July 9th
Sheep Lane was a crooked little street of black and white half-timbered houses, one of the oldest streets in Broadminster, and the Brush and Palette was halfway down on the left-hand side. It was sandwiched between a betting shop on one side and a dry cleaner’s on the other. The front step was worn, the door frame was crooked, and Paget had to nudge the door with his shoulder before it would give way. An old-fashioned bell on a spiral spring above the door clattered rather than rang as he entered, and clattered even more when he tried to push the door shut.
‘Needs a bit taking off,’ a man said as he came forward from the back of the shop. ‘I keep meaning to take a chisel to it, but I never seem to have time. Now, what can I do for you, sir?’
Paget introduced himself. ‘We spoke on the phone earlier this morning,’ he said. ‘You are Mr Taylor, I take it?’
The welcoming smile disappeared. ‘That’s right,’ the man said neutrally.
David Taylor was shorter than Paget by an inch or two. His broad shoulders, short neck, and well-muscled arms made him look more like a rugby player than Paget’s idea of an artist. Paget glanced around the empty shop. ‘Can we talk here or . . .?’
‘As I told you on the phone, I’m here alone, so if customers come in I shall have to attend to them.’
‘In that case, I’ll try not to take up too much of your time.’
‘Good. So let’s get to the point, shall we? Claire said she told you that Barry Grant and I were friends, but I’ll tell you what I told her.’ Taylor repeated what he had told Claire, concluding with: ‘I hardly ever saw Barry after I went off to Slade, but I heard about him from my brother, Kevin, who said he’d run into Barry at university in Leeds. Barry had always been crazy about cars, so the Grants packed him off to Leeds to take Mechanical Engineering. Kevin was three or four years older than Barry, but Barry sought him out and said he was a friend of mine and that I had told him to look Kevin up when he got to Leeds.’
‘And you hadn’t?’
‘Lord, no. That’s the last thing I would have done.’
‘Your brother is Kevin Taylor? A solicitor? Is he with Bradshaw, Lewis and Mortimer, by any chance?’
‘That’s right. You know him, then?’
‘I haven’t dealt with him directly, no, but I met him briefly when my father died. Mr Bradshaw was the one who dealt with my father’s will.’
‘Who is also Kevin’s father-in-law.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Ed Bradshaw is Kevin’s wife’s father. Kevin met Stephanie Bradshaw at university, and they were married at the end of their third year there. Kev was taking Law, and Steph was taking Business Administration. When Kevin got his degree, Ed offered him a job with the firm. Kevin is a pretty bright lad, and I expect he’ll become a full partner in the firm when Mortimer retires at the end of the year.’
‘So, if I understand you correctly, you’re saying that while your brother Kevin, Stephanie Bradshaw, and Barry Grant were all at university together, they weren’t close friends?’
‘Far from it,’ David said emphatically. ‘In fact I’m sure they went out of their way to avoid him, so there’s no need to go pestering Kevin and Steph with your questions about Barry.’
Paget raised an eyebrow. ‘Pestering?’ he said mildly. ‘I would have thought that, now we have been given a second chance to find out who killed your father, you and your brother would be only too happy to help us with our enquiries. Until Miss Hammond came to us with new information, the case was as good as dead, and the killers had nothing to fear. But now we know that Barry Grant and friends of his were involved – although “friends” might be too strong a word, considering the way he claims he was treated by them. Miss Hammond couldn’t tell us who his friends were, but she thought you might know. So tell me, why are you so reluctant to talk to me?’
Colour darkened David’s face. ‘Perhaps it’s because I don’t take kindly to being suspected of having killed my own father,’ he said tightly. ‘According to Claire—’
‘Ah! So that’s it, is it?’ Paget broke in. ‘She told you that I had asked if she thought you might have been involved. Did she also tell you why I asked that? Did she tell you the reason Barry gave for the killing of your father?’
‘She said Dad recognized one of the robbers.’
‘And did she tell you that Barry said he couldn’t face you after that?’
‘Yes, but . . .’ David looked puzzled.
‘So I asked myself why he couldn’t face you, and there were at least two possible explanations. One was that he couldn’t face you because he was consumed with guilt for having been involved in the killing of the father of someone he regarded as a friend, but another possibility was that it was you your father unmasked. So, assuming for the moment that you were not involved, will you at least help me by telling me everything you know about Barry, and who his friends might have been back then?’
David shook his head. ‘It’s not a matter of not wanting to help find out who killed Dad,’ he said. ‘As I told you, I don’t know who Barry’s friends were at that time. Barry was still at school when I went off to Slade to study art, so, apart from seeing him on the street the odd time when I was home during the summer bre
ak, I had no contact with him. I’m sorry, but I really can’t help you. But there is one thing I can tell you. If you’d done your homework before coming here with your suspicions, you’d know that I was out doing deliveries when Dad was killed. Kev and I did that when we were home during the holidays. It helped Dad out and sort of paid for our free board and lodgings throughout the summer, and we were usually finished by ten o’clock, which allowed us to take on another job for the rest of the day and make a bit of money towards our tuition.’
Paget frowned. ‘If I remember correctly, what you said in the statement you made to Inspector Rogers at the time was that you didn’t return from your rounds until shortly after eleven that morning,’ he said. ‘Some sort of delay in getting started, I believe you said? It wasn’t altogether clear in your statement.’
‘There was an accident in the bakery that morning,’ David said carefully. ‘I explained that to Rogers at the time, and if he didn’t put it down, that’s not my fault. As I said, I don’t know exactly what happened, but an entire batch of bread was left in the oven too long. The loaves were burnt and we had to wait for the next lot to be done before we could go out.’
‘Had this sort of thing happened before?’
‘I wouldn’t know. I wasn’t there for a good part of the year.’
‘Was your father particularly upset or distracted that morning?’
‘No more than usual.’
‘You say, “no more than usual”, Mr Taylor. Was your father easily upset?’
David eyed Paget narrowly as if trying to decide where the questions about his father were leading. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘my father was a hard worker and he worried about everything, and if things went wrong he would become very upset, and that’s all I meant by what I said. It was not unusual for him to be worried or upset about something. That was Dad. We were used to it, and I don’t see what this has to do with your investigation.’
