by Frank Smith
‘Frankly, neither do I at the moment,’ Paget told him, ‘but what I am trying to do is put together the sequence of events as they occurred that day, and I would appreciate your cooperation. Tell me, how well did you and your brother get along with your father?’
David sucked in his breath, then let out a long sigh as he shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘So that’s what you’ve been leading up to, is it?’ he said. ‘So what else did Claire just happen to mention?’
He glanced at the door as if expecting it to open, perhaps hoping that someone would come in, but the door remained firmly closed. ‘Very well, then,’ he said, ‘let’s get that out of the way. It was no secret back then that Dad and I were barely on speaking terms. He was so set on my following in Kevin’s footsteps to university, and I was just as determined to become an artist; it was inevitable that we would clash over it. I’ve always thought of my father as a stubborn man, but I suppose I must have inherited some of those genes, because I can be pretty stubborn, too, especially when it comes to the way I want to lead my life. So, does that make me a suspect?’
‘To be honest, Mr Taylor, everyone is a suspect until proven otherwise in a case such as this,’ said Paget, ‘so the sooner I know the whole story, the sooner I can make a rational judgement about who should remain on the list and who shouldn’t. What I don’t understand is why, if things were that strained between you and your father, you were there working for him in the bakery?’
Taylor looked down at the floor, and it was clear by the set of his mouth that he was in two minds about whether to answer the question or not. Finally, looking up, he said, ‘What you have to understand is that the one thing had nothing to do with the other. The argument about what I should be doing at university was one thing; work was another. And it was always made clear to me that, regardless of our differences, I always had a home and a job to come back to. But, when it came to my future, he expected me to be more like Kevin; he wanted me to become a solicitor or doctor or engineer – “something worthwhile” was the way he put it. He tried reasoning with me at first, then told me he would see me right financially, as he had with Kevin, if I would just buckle down and do something useful with my life. But when I said my mind was made up, and I wasn’t going to be bribed into changing it, he told me I was a fool, and I could forget about any help from him, financial or otherwise in the future.
‘So, we both came back and worked for him whenever we could. We didn’t get paid, but we did have free board and lodging, and that was a big help to both of us. Kev and I did the early morning deliveries, then went off to our other jobs the rest of the day. Me, I worked afternoons at the Midland garage on the Ludlow road, and I cleaned offices at night. It was a hard slog, but I made it through without his help.’
‘Although I imagine it must have been somewhat easier after your father died,’ Paget suggested mildly. ‘With the money from your father’s estate and the sale of the bakery.’
‘You can imagine whatever you like –’ David walked to the door and opened it – ‘but you can do it somewhere else, because you’ll get nothing more from me.’
‘There is just one thing I should mention before I go,’ said Paget as he made his way to the door. ‘Miss Hammond told us nothing about you or your relations with your father. I merely asked the question as a matter of routine, so please don’t blame her for that. But it was enlightening. Thank you for your time.’
On his return to Charter Lane, Paget stopped at Len Ormside’s desk. The grizzled Sergeant, shirt clinging damply to his chest, waved Paget to a seat and held up a single finger to indicate that he was almost finished on the phone. Paget slipped his jacket off and sat down. A small fan on the floor beside the desk made rattling sounds as it laboured ineffectually against the heat. The room seemed unusually quiet, and no wonder, Paget thought as he looked at the empty desks. Apart from Ormside and himself, there were only two others in the room, and both were busy answering phones.
Ormside made a face as he hung up the phone. ‘The fire in Whitchurch Street last night was definitely arson,’ he said, ‘so that’s going to tie up more of my people, and what with holidays and Johnson off with a broken ankle, I don’t know how I’m going to cover everything.’
He sat back in his chair, eyeing Paget suspiciously as he lifted the front of his shirt away from his chest and flapped it in an attempt to allow air to circulate behind it. ‘And I don’t like the look in your eye, either,’ he growled. ‘It would be nice if you’ve come to tell me we’re getting air conditioning in here next week, but that’s not it, is it?’
Paget shook his head. ‘Air conditioning isn’t the answer, Len. Not in these days of global warming. As Darwin said, we have to adapt if the species is to survive; the alternative is extinction.’
Ormside sighed. ‘Ask a silly question,’ he said glumly. ‘So what is it, then? Not this Barry Grant thing, I hope? I took a quick look at the files Tregalles dumped on my desk yesterday, but the last thing I need right now is a thirteen-year-old cold case.’
‘Afraid it is,’ Paget said, not without sympathy. ‘I’ve just come from talking to David Taylor. He’s the son of George Taylor, the baker who was killed in the Bergman raid, but he insists that he doesn’t know any more about who Grant’s friends were back then than Claire Hammond does.
‘So, I want you to start digging. Since the robberies all took place here in Broadminster, let’s assume that his friends were from here as well, so start with a list of Grant’s classmates during his last year at Westonleigh, and his first and only year at Leeds. You might also find out if any of his old teachers are still around. Someone has to know more about this kid than we’re being told.’
Ormside cocked a baleful eye at Paget. ‘Take a look around,’ he said. ‘That’s what’s left of my staff, and they’re up to their eyeballs as it is, so I hope you’re not in a hurry for this stuff. I mean it’s waited this long, so a few more days shouldn’t make much difference.’
‘Believe me, Len, I’m well aware of the problems,’ Paget told him. ‘I don’t want to be unreasonable, but I do need that information, so let’s do it this way: concentrate on the names of his classmates here at Westonleigh, and have those who are still around come in to be interviewed. Tregalles and Forsythe can do some of them, and they will be responsible for any follow-up, which should ease the burden on the rest of your people. As for those who live farther afield, we’ll take a look at them if we need to after we’ve had the locals in.’
‘That’ll help,’ Ormside conceded, ‘but I still can’t promise anything until at least the beginning of next week. Unless, of course, now that you’re sitting in the super’s chair, you’re prepared to authorize overtime?’
Paget shook his head. ‘You know that’s out of the question,’ he said as he rose to leave. ‘But if you could make a start on it tomorrow . . .?’ He saw the look on Ormside’s face, and raised his hands in a sign of surrender. ‘OK, OK,’ he conceded, ‘the beginning of the week it is, then, and I’ll let Tregalles know.’
SIX
Friday, July 10th
It was a far different looking Claire Hammond who greeted Paget and Superintendent Alcott the following morning when they entered the house Claire still thought of as Aunt Jane’s home. Today, she was wearing a headscarf, a pair of rumpled slacks, trainers, and a T-shirt bearing the words: Save a tree – eat a beaver; a gift, she explained, from a cousin in Canada.
‘I’m afraid the place is in a bit of a mess,’ she said apologetically as they stood in the narrow entrance hall. ‘When you phoned and asked me to meet you here, I decided to come early and start sorting through some of the cupboards and drawers, but it’s hard to know what to do with so many things. Aunt Jane hated to throw anything away, so you can imagine what it’s like.’
‘I can indeed,’ Paget told her, having gone through a similar process himself when his father died. In fact, there were still things in the house for which he had no use at all, but he’d kept the
m because they’d had meaning for his father. ‘Will you be moving in yourself, or will the house be sold?’
Claire ran a hand through her hair. ‘I really haven’t made up my mind. I’d like to move in, more for Aunt Jane’s sake than anything else, but it’s really far too big for one person. I’ll have to give it more serious thought when I’ve had time to sort things out. Anyway, I’m sure you didn’t come here to listen to my problems, so what was it you wanted to see, exactly?’
Alcott had asked Paget the same question when the Chief Inspector had persuaded the Superintendent to accompany him to the house, and he gave Claire the same answer. ‘To be honest, I’m not quite sure myself. But after hearing what you had to say the other day, and reading the old reports, it seemed to me that it might be useful to learn more about Barry himself.’ He glanced at Alcott. ‘And, since Superintendent Alcott was directly involved at the time of Barry’s death, I’m hoping that revisiting the scene might stir a helpful memory or two.’
Alcott had balked at the suggestion that he accompany Paget to examine the place where Barry Grant had died. His first reaction had been to say he couldn’t spare the time. Marion was undergoing more tests today and he should be with her at the hospital. But he’d changed his mind, not because he wanted to revisit the scene of a young lad’s suicide he still remembered vividly, but because it would be a welcome distraction from his personal situation.
‘So, Miss Hammond,’ Paget said, ‘if you would lead the way, perhaps we could begin by taking a look at what used to be Barry’s bedroom.’
‘Of course.’ Claire started towards the stairs, but Alcott stopped to examine a picture on the wall.
‘That’s him,’ he said, tapping the glass. ‘That’s a better picture of him than we have on file.’
‘Yes, that’s Barry,’ Claire agreed. She stepped back to allow Paget to see the picture.
Barry Grant was sitting in the driver’s seat of an old Vauxhall. The window was down and he was leaning out, grinning and waving at the camera. Long fair hair that fell below the shoulders framed a narrow face.
‘He looks pretty proud of himself there,’ Paget observed. He looked at Claire, but she remained silent. ‘How old would he have been when that was taken?’
‘Seventeen, maybe eighteen. I don’t know exactly.’
‘Any idea whose car that was?’
‘Not the slightest.’
‘Do you mind if we take this picture with us when we leave? I’d like to see if Forensic can tell us anything about the car. It might have belonged to one of his friends.’
‘Of, course, if you think it will help.’
‘Thanks. Do you know if there are any group pictures of Barry and his friends?’
Claire frowned in thought. ‘Not that I can think of,’ she said at last. ‘I don’t think Aunt Jane owned a camera, but if I come across any pictures, you’re welcome to them.’
‘Thank you.’
Alcott, who had moved on to study other pictures on the wall, said, ‘Do your parents still live next door, Miss Hammond?’
‘No. They moved to Southampton about ten years ago. My father’s in insurance. He’s general manager there.’
‘But they were still living next door when Barry died?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Did they ever talk about what happened?’
Claire shook her head. ‘Not really. I think as far as my dad was concerned, the less said the better when it came to Barry.’ She cast a furtive glance at her watch.
Alcott took the hint. ‘Right,’ he said briskly, ‘best get on, then.’ He stood back to allow Claire to lead the way. ‘It was the back bedroom, if memory serves,’ he said as they reached the landing at the top of the stairs. He pointed to a closed door.
‘That’s right,’ said Claire. ‘Aunt Jane would never let anyone else use it after Barry died, so you’ll find it virtually the same as it was then. She cleaned and vacuumed in there as she did throughout the rest of the house, and she took the sheets and pillows off the bed, but otherwise it’s pretty much the way Barry left it.’
‘Are you saying she kept it as some sort of shrine?’
‘Oh, no, it wasn’t like that,’ Claire assured him. ‘She simply had no reason to change it, so it’s remained as it was.’
Alcott opened the door and stood there for a moment before moving inside. Paget followed, while Claire hovered uncertainly in the doorway. The room smelt musty, suggesting that neither the door nor the window had been opened for some time.
It was as Claire had said: the room looked as if Barry Grant might return to it at any time. There were clothes in the wardrobe; there were books and papers on his desk, and magazines stacked neatly on the floor. Yellowing posters featuring cars and scantily clad girls were still pinned to the walls, and a guitar with broken strings stood in the corner.
The temperature outside was already climbing rapidly, but Claire shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. ‘I don’t know why,’ she said, ‘but this room always gives me a funny feeling.’
‘You searched this room yourself, did you, sir?’ asked Paget.
Alcott nodded. ‘Looking for a note,’ he said, ‘or anything at all that might explain why the boy felt compelled to end his life in such a violent way, but there was nothing. Now we know why: Mrs Grant had taken the notes away.’
Paget turned to Claire. ‘I doubt if we will find anything in this room after all this time,’ he said, ‘but I would like to have someone come in to search the house for anything that might tell us who Barry’s friends were – old photographs, letters from university, perhaps, things that Mrs Grant may have kept locked away. With your permission, of course.’
Claire hesitated. ‘It’s not that I mind,’ she told him, ‘but I have quite a lot on at the moment. Do I need to be here?’
‘I think you should be,’ Paget told her. ‘And the sooner we do it the better. Do you think you could be here Monday morning? Say about nine? It shouldn’t take too long.’
Claire frowned as she mentally rearranged the plans she’d had for Monday, then nodded. ‘I can do that,’ she told him. ‘In fact it will give me a chance to sort a few things out myself.’
‘Then that’s settled,’ Paget said, ‘and thank you.’
Alcott was shaking his head as he moved towards the door. ‘It’s uncanny,’ he muttered as much to himself as to the others. ‘Nothing’s changed. After all these years, it looks exactly as I remember it.’
‘Does it trigger any memories that might prove useful to us in this new enquiry?’ asked Paget hopefully.
‘Memories? Oh, yes,’ said Alcott soberly. ‘But useful . . .?’ He shook his head.
‘I believe you wanted to see the packing shed as well,’ Claire said as she led the way to the head of the stairs, then started down without waiting for an answer. At the bottom, they followed her down and along the hall towards the back of the house. ‘The key to the shed is in here,’ she said, pausing beside an open door leading to the conservatory. ‘You go ahead and I’ll catch up with you.’
Alcott continued on his way to the back door, but Paget followed Claire inside. ‘Now this is a surprise,’ he said as he looked around. Over twenty feet long and perhaps twelve or thirteen feet wide, and all windows down one side, the conservatory looked out on a narrow strip of lawn and a vegetable garden, both woefully overgrown and in desperate need of water, and beyond that was the orchard where Claire had told them she’d played as a child. ‘Very nice indeed,’ he said. ‘I’ve often thought I’d like something like this on my house. Is it a recent addition?’
‘Compared to the rest of the house, I suppose you could say that,’ she said. ‘Uncle Arnold had it done a couple of years before he died, which would be about fifteen or sixteen years ago. He designed it and helped build it, but it was Aunt Jane who chose the colour scheme, the rattan furniture and the colourful cushions. But, as you can see, she was rather over fond of ornaments.’
Paget couldn’t he
lp but agree as he looked around the room. There were ornaments of every description on almost every flat surface in the room. There were a few nice pieces, but they were all but lost amid the clutter of small, glass animals, paperweights, crystals, odd-shaped stones, and seashells.
‘And these aren’t the only ones,’ Claire told him as she took a key from the drawer of a small desk near the door. ‘There has to be at least another fifty tucked away in drawers and cupboards. If it shone or sparkled, chances were Aunt Jane would buy it. Uncle Arnold used to say she must have been a magpie in a previous life.’
‘And coins as well?’ Paget said, indicating a large jam jar almost full of pennies.
Claire laughed. ‘No, that was Uncle Arnold’s,’ she said. ‘He used to throw all his pennies in the jar until it was full, then take them down to a little shop off the market place where they collect them for some charity or other. I remember several years ago asking Aunt Jane if she’d like me to take the money down there for her, but she said to leave it because it wasn’t full yet.’
‘She never added to it herself?’
‘Oh, no. That was Uncle Arnold’s jar. In a strange sort of way, I think it was as if he wasn’t really gone as long as the jar still needed pennies to fill it up.’
Paget caught sight of Alcott through the window. ‘Better be going,’ he said with a nod towards the window. He held out his hand out for the key, but Claire closed her own hand over it.
‘I’ll come with you, if you don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I haven’t had a chance to go out there myself since Aunt Jane died, so I’d like to see what sort of state the shed is in. It’s been years since I was inside it; in fact, I think the last time I was in there was while I was still at school.’
The orchard was long and narrow, bordered on either side by high wooden fences that showed signs of neglect. The grass was brown and dry in the summer heat, crackling beneath their feet as they made their way between the trees towards the shed at the far end of the orchard. The trees themselves were old and gnarled, and long overdue for pruning. But it would take more than pruning to save these trees, thought Paget, with leaves already brown and curling, and apples the size of walnuts withering on the stem.
