A Killing Resurrected

by Frank Smith

  ‘I think you’re developing a talent for this,’ she said approvingly. ‘I think we just might make a Superintendent of you yet, Mr Paget.’

  He grinned. ‘Not if I can help it,’ he told her. ‘I prefer the job I have, and the sooner I can get back to it full time, the happier I’ll be.’

  ‘Let’s hope it will be soon, then,’ the secretary said. ‘Have you heard how Mrs Alcott is doing? I left a message on Mr Alcott’s phone yesterday, but he hasn’t rung back.’

  ‘Not a word, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘But I’ll let you know if I hear anything, and perhaps you could do the same for me?’

  ‘I’ll call you if I hear anything,’ she promised. ‘I thought I might send a card or perhaps some flowers? From all of us, you know? What do you think, sir?’

  ‘I think it would be very much appreciated,’ he told her, ‘so, yes, go ahead and I’ll mention it during the briefing as well, and ask Sergeant Ormside to have a whip round down there.’

  The briefing itself was short, with most of the time spent bringing everyone up to speed on the events surrounding the death of Roger Corbett.

  ‘We don’t yet know the cause of death,’ Paget conceded, ‘but coming within hours of my speaking to him last Tuesday afternoon, I think we can consider it a suspicious death, and act accordingly. So, Tregalles, I want you to start at Corbett’s office and find out where he went and what he did after I left there on Tuesday afternoon.

  ‘And I want you,’ he said to Molly, ‘to go back out to Rutherford Hill to talk to the Corbetts’ neighbours. I want to know if anyone saw Roger Corbett return to the house, and when that was if they did. I want to know if he was with anyone, and if any other vehicles were seen coming or going to or from the house. I would also like to know if anyone saw Lisa Corbett come home when she says she did.’

  He turned to Ormside. ‘I’d like you to take a close look at the state of the Corbetts’ marriage and their finances, and I’m particularly interested in the relationship Corbett had with Irene Sinclair. It’s almost as if the man had two wives. The two women appear to be on friendly terms and happy with the situation, but I don’t understand it, so see what you can find out.’

  But the grizzled Sergeant shook his head. ‘No, sir,’ he said firmly, ‘I’m not tackling that one. That’s one for Forsythe. She’d be far better at that sort of thing than I would.’

  Paget chuckled. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he said. ‘All right, Forsythe . . .?’

  ‘Except I have Graham Williams coming in at ten,’ she said. ‘He’s another one who was at school with Barry Grant, and he was at the Taylors’ party.’

  ‘Reschedule,’ Paget told her, then paused. ‘On second thoughts, let Williams come ahead. Sergeant Ormside can talk to him. All right, Len?’

  ‘Sooner him than go poking around in Corbett’s love life,’ Ormside growled, ‘so, yes, I can squeeze him in.’

  ‘Useless!’ the fat man behind the desk said baldly. ‘Completely bloody useless, and he would have been gone at the end of the month, anyway. Not that I’m glad he’s dead, of course,’ he added hastily, ‘but he was no good as a salesman.’

  The man was Gerry Stone, Roger Corbett’s erstwhile boss and the manager of the Braithwaite Letting Agency.

  ‘Drink,’ the man continued. ‘That was his problem plain and simple. He’s had one sale in all the time he’s been here, and that was to a friend, if I’m not mistaken. Kept saying he had prospects, but I never saw any of them if he had. As for where he went after he left here last Tuesday, I have no idea, but Joanie might know.’

  Joan Hunter, or ‘Joanie’ as everyone called her, was not, as Tregalles had thought, Roger Corbett’s secretary. Rather she worked for everyone in the office.

  ‘General dogsbody, that’s me,’ she said cheerfully when Tregalles asked. ‘I do everything. Typing, filing, make the tea, run errands, you name it. So if there’s anything you want to know, ask me, because I know more about this office than the whole lot put together.’ She lowered her voice. ‘But don’t tell the boss that, ’cause he thinks he’s running the show. OK?’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Tregalles. ‘Now—’

  ‘So what’s this all about, then?’ Joanie asked before Tregalles could frame his first question. ‘Mr Corbett in trouble, is he?’ She lowered her voice once more. ‘Confidentially, I understand he was going to be given the push at the end of the month anyway, so I don’t suppose we’ll be seeing him around here again. Funny him going off like that, though. I think he must have got wind of what was going to happen, and decided to pack it in before he got the chop. Mind you, I shall miss him, because he could be a real gentleman when he wasn’t what you might call “under the weather”.’

  ‘Was he under the weather very often?’ Tregalles asked quickly before Joanie could draw another breath.

  ‘On and off,’ she said cautiously.

  ‘He drank,’ Tregalles said bluntly.

  ‘Well, yes, he did, but it wasn’t his fault, not really, if you see what I mean. He had these headaches and he’d get very depressed, so he’d have a nip or two to keep him going. Trouble was, once he’d started he couldn’t seem to stop.’

  ‘What about last Tuesday? Tell me what happened after Chief Inspector Paget left his office?’

  Joanie made a face. ‘I don’t really know,’ she said. ‘He closed the door then telephoned someone. I could hear him talking, but I don’t know who he called. I think he made several calls. I remember his light on my phone going on and off several times before he came out and told me he was going to meet a client, and wouldn’t be back that afternoon.’

  ‘A client? Any idea who that might have been?’ Tregalles asked.

  The secretary shook her head. ‘There wasn’t any client, at least none that I know of, and I’m sure we would have heard if he did have one, because it would have been his first in a long time. It was just his excuse for skiving off. Besides, he’d been drinking quite a bit in the office. I could smell it on him when he stopped at my desk, and he was not all that steady on his feet when he went out.’

  ‘Was he walking or did he take his car?’

  ‘He went out the back way, so I’m sure he took his car.’

  ‘But client or not, he could have gone to see someone,’ Tregalles persisted. ‘Someone he’d arranged to meet over the phone. Any idea who that might have been or where he might be meeting them?’

  ‘Don’t know about who,’ Joanie said, ‘but if he was meeting someone, my bet would be that he’d meet them in a pub somewhere.’

  ‘The Unicorn, perhaps?’

  Joanie nodded slowly. ‘Could be,’ she agreed. ‘It’s not one that any of us go to, so he might go there. But I’d still like to know what this is all about. What’s he done? Some sort of accident was it? Is he all right?’

  ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Joanie,’ Tregalles said, ‘but Roger Corbett is dead. Drowned in a fish pond at—’

  ‘Not his koi pond?’ Joanie broke in breathlessly. ‘Oh that poor man. He used to talk about those fish all the time. Oh, that poor, poor man!’

  Tregalles spent some time in Corbett’s office, but there was little to be found. If he’d expected to find a scribbled telephone number on the memo pad of the person Corbett had called prior to leaving the office on Tuesday, he was disappointed. But what he did find in one of the drawers of Corbett’s desk was a half empty bottle of Johnny Walker, and an empty bottle of Jameson’s in one of the filing cabinets.

  As for anything resembling listings, contracts or sales, all the forms were there in pristine condition in the filing cabinet, waiting to be used. Waiting in vain, thought Tregalles as he came out to thank Joanie for her help.

  But she was weeping silently, and he felt it best to leave the words unspoken.

  The elderly man seated on a stationary ride-on lawnmower in the shade of a huge chestnut tree watched Molly as she made her way up the long driveway. His face was lean and tanned, his eyes deep-set beneath eyebrows turn
ing white. ‘You look as if you could do with a drink,’ he called. ‘Come on over here and rest yourself and I’ll get you one.’

  The man slid off the seat and walked over to a wooden bench circling the tree. ‘I bring my lunch out here on days like this,’ he said as Molly walked across the lawn to join him. She’d been working her way around the neighbourhood for the past couple of hours, and the heat was beginning to get to her.

  ‘It’s just too hot to carry on with the mowing,’ the man said, ‘so I’m packing it in for the day. Beer?’ he enquired, taking a couple of cans from a cooler. ‘No glasses though. Wasn’t expecting company.’

  ‘Looks good to me,’ said Molly gratefully as she sat down beside him on the bench. ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘Should be wearing a hat,’ the man said, pointing to his own well-worn Tilley hat. ‘You could get sunstroke on a day like this.’ He pulled the tab on both cans and handed one to Molly. ‘Bottoms up, but take it slow,’ he warned, ‘because it’s ice-cold.’ He took a drink himself and Molly followed suit.

  ‘Oh, that does feel good!’ she declared, as she leaned back against the tree. ‘Again, thank you very much.’

  ‘Like a sandwich?’ he enquired. ‘I always make more than I need, then I have to eat them for my tea if I can’t manage them for lunch. Name’s Fred, Fred Whitfield.’ He thrust out a hand.

  ‘Molly Forsythe,’ she said in return. ‘Detective Constable Forsythe,’ she elaborated, ‘and thanks, but I have my own lunch in the car.’

  The man grunted. ‘Didn’t think you were selling,’ he said. ‘Didn’t look the type. So what can I do for you?’

  ‘You live here, do you Mr Whitfield?’ Molly asked with a nod towards the house.

  He smiled. ‘Think I was the gardener, did you?’ he asked, then laughed. ‘Can’t say I blame you, looking at these old clothes. Oh, I live here all right, but I don’t know for how much longer. The place is too big for me to look after since the wife died, even with help. But that’s got nothing to do with why you’re here,’ he continued, ‘so what is it? About that business up the road? The Corbetts? All those police cars coming and going? Is it true he drowned in that pond of his?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. And you’re quite right, that is why I’m here. I’m looking for anyone who might have witnessed Mr Corbett, or anyone else for that matter, coming or going last Tuesday afternoon or evening.’

  ‘Why do you want to know that?’

  ‘We’re trying to establish exactly when Mr Corbett returned to the house after leaving his office last Tuesday afternoon, and if anyone was with him. Were you out here by any chance last Tuesday?’

  Fred Whitfield squinted into the distance. ‘Tuesday,’ he repeated slowly, then nodded. ‘Come to think of it I did see him, well, not Corbett himself, but I saw his car while I was taking Lizzie for a walk.’ He nodded towards a hawthorn hedge on the far side of the lawn, where a small dog Molly hadn’t noticed till now, lay asleep in the deep shade.

  ‘Half blind and getting old, I’m afraid,’ he said sadly, ‘but she still likes her walk every day, sometimes twice a day.’

  ‘Do you remember what time that would be?’

  ‘Four thirty, five o’clock, not exactly sure of the time,’ Whitfield said. ‘Always take Lizzie out then, and we walk up past the Corbetts under the shade trees when it’s hot like this. Go up to the fields at the top where Lizzie used to like to run, but she isn’t up to it any more, so we have a bit of a rest, then come back. Corbett’s car passed me on the way up and turned into his driveway.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you saw any activity up at the house as you went by the end of his driveway?’ Molly asked hopefully.

  But Whitfield shook his head. ‘Can’t see the house properly this time of year,’ he told her. ‘Too many trees and shrubs in full leaf. But there was another car in there as well. Saw it come out on the way back.’

  ‘What other car, Mr Whitfield? Have you seen it before? Can you describe it?’

  Whitfield thought about that while he took another drink. ‘Can’t recall seeing that particular one up here before,’ he said, ‘but it was very much like the Honda CR-V Jack Reynolds drives – he lives just down the road – except his is dark red and the one I saw was silver. It might not have been the same make, but it was similar in size and shape, and quite new by the look of it except for a scratch along the side. It looked like the sort of mindless thing the kids do with a knife or a coin these days, and I remember thinking the owner must have been pretty peeved to have that happen to his car. Oh, yes, and there was a small decal of the Welsh flag just above the back bumper, driver’s side. I’m afraid that’s about all I can tell you, except there was a man and a woman in it. I only caught a glimpse of them as they came out on to the road.’

  ‘Which one was driving?’

  ‘The man.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  Whitfield shook his head. ‘I wasn’t paying that much attention, I’m afraid. Sorry, but it didn’t mean anything to me at the time.’

  ‘What about the woman? Can you describe her?’

  Whitfield frowned in concentration, replaying the scene in his mind. ‘Sorry,’ he said again, ‘but there was no reason to pay them any attention.’

  ‘Could the woman have been Mrs Corbett?’

  ‘Could have been, but she had a sun hat on and I only caught a very brief glimpse of her, so I really don’t know. But why not ask her yourself?’

  ‘I did ask her,’ Molly told Ormside later when she phoned in, ‘but she said she had no idea whose car it might have been or who would be calling at the house. It certainly wasn’t her car Mr Whitfield described, and she reminded me that she didn’t arrive home until midnight on Tuesday. So I asked her what time she and her dance partner left Scarborough, and she told me they left there on Monday. She spent the night and following day with Ramon – or Ray Short, if you like – before coming home.’

  Ormside grunted. ‘You mean . . .?’

  ‘I mean she “spent the night”,’ said Molly, emphasizing the words. ‘She was quite open about it.’

  ‘What kind of car does Mr Short drive, I wonder?’

  ‘A ten-year-old Ford Transit,’ Molly told him. ‘White and rust – genuine rust according to Mrs Corbett. And the driver of the car Whitfield saw was white. Ray Short is black.’

  She was about to hang up when Ormside stopped her. ‘Did you say the name of the man you spoke to is Fred Whitfield?’ he asked. ‘Tallish, white hair, thin face?’

  ‘That’s right. Do you know him?’

  ‘In a way,’ said Ormside drily. ‘I think you’ve just been talking to retired High Court judge, the Honourable Mr Justice Fred Whitfield, and you couldn’t have a better witness if this ever comes to trial. Nice one, Forsythe.’

  NINETEEN

  The whey-faced man behind the bar only had to glance at the photograph before he said, ‘Yeah, that’s him. Corbett. He’s a regular. Afternoons, mostly. Why, what’s he done?’

  Tregalles ignored the question. ‘Was he in here last Tuesday afternoon?’

  The man scratched his head. His yellow hair was pulled back into a ragged ponytail held in place by a rubber band. It looked more like a wig made of fine straw than the man’s natural hair.

  ‘Could have been Tuesday,’ he said slowly. ‘Yeah, probably was, ’cause I haven’t seen him the last couple of days. Came in about half three or quarter to four. Sat over there drinking doubles and making phone calls,’ he continued, pointing to a corner seat by the window.

  ‘Did you talk to him? Did he say anything to you?’

  The man shook his head. ‘Just took his drink and sat down and started making phone calls on his mobile.’

  ‘Was that something he normally did?’

  ‘Not like that. I mean he might make the odd call now and again like everybody else these days, but he must have made at least half-a-dozen of them one after the other when he first came in. Seemed to be working himself up into a bit
of a state.’

  ‘Drinking much, was he?’

  Instead of answering the question, the barman moved away to serve a middle-aged couple, who had attracted his attention by raising their empty glasses. Tregalles looked around. There weren’t many in. Apart from himself and the two at the bar, there were only five other people in the place. Two men with briefcases beside their chairs were enjoying a leisurely drink; a young woman had her nose in a book; and two grey-haired ladies with shopping bags were fanning themselves on a bench seat near the window.

  Somewhat reluctantly, the barman drifted back.

  ‘I was asking how much Corbett was drinking,’ Tregalles reminded him.

  ‘About the same as usual,’ the man said, suddenly cautious.

  ‘The usual? I don’t know what that means,’ Tregalles said sharply. ‘You said he was drinking doubles, so how many of those did he have?’

  ‘Don’t remember exactly,’ the man hedged. ‘A couple maybe.’

  ‘Look,’ Tregalles said, ‘I’m not after you for serving him drinks when he was probably pissed when he came in, but I do need to know what his condition was when he left. You’ve already told me he was drinking doubles and he was in a bit of a state, so, how many?’

  The man eyed him. ‘Could have been four or five,’ he admitted, ‘but I’ll deny it if anyone else asks.’

  ‘Just watch it in future,’ Tregalles warned, knowing full well he was wasting his breath. ‘So, he made a lot of phone calls. Did you hear any of the conversation?’

  The barman shook his head. ‘I just took him his drinks when he gave me the sign and left him alone. Anyway, he stopped talking whenever I was close by.’

  ‘What did he do after the phone calls?’

  ‘Just sat there by the window looking out every few minutes as if he was expecting somebody.’

  ‘How long was he here?’

  ‘Dunno, exactly. We got a bit busy and the next time I looked over there he was gone.’

  ‘About what time would that be?’

  ‘Half four. That’s when some of the regulars start coming in, so I didn’t see him go.’