A Killing Resurrected

by Frank Smith

  Molly, who had been watching closely, said, ‘It’s not just your shoulder, is it, Mrs Chadwell? It’s your ribs as well. And your arm. Would you mind rolling up your sleeve?’ She reached out to undo the buttons on the cuff.

  Panic flared in Amy’s eyes. ‘You can’t do this,’ she panted. She jerked her arm away, but the sudden movement brought a sharp cry of pain, and tears spilled down her cheeks. The sleeve came loose and Molly pushed it gently up her arm.

  Amy moaned softly and turned her head away. ‘Don’t,’ she whispered. ‘Please don’t do this . . .’ She said something else as well, but neither Molly nor Paget could make out the words.

  ‘These bruises weren’t there yesterday,’ Molly said quietly, ‘and I’m sure the other injuries weren’t there either.’

  Paget already had his phone out. He punched in a number. ‘Paget,’ he said when someone answered. ‘We need a doctor immediately. Room number one.’

  ‘And now,’ he said, not unkindly, as he pocketed the phone, ‘while we’re waiting for the doctor, I think it’s time you told us the truth, Mrs Chadwell, and the first thing I want to know is, who did this to you? And please don’t try to tell us you got those bruises falling down the stairs.’

  The ambulance had come and gone. Still trying to insist that she was all right, Amy had been overruled by the medical examiner and sent off to hospital, accompanied by a WPC.

  ‘I believe that woman has been used as a punching bag long before this,’ the doctor told Paget as he closed his bag. ‘As for her most recent injuries, I’m surprised she was able to walk in here under her own steam. She must have been in a lot of pain, although from the smell of her breath and the feel of her hair and skin, I suspect she’s been taking painkillers by the handful. I assume you’ll be charging the husband?’

  ‘Only if we can persuade Mrs Chadwell to testify that it was her husband who inflicted the injuries,’ said Paget, ‘but so far she’s refused to do so, and I think it’s unlikely she will.’

  ‘It never ceases to amaze me what some women will put up with,’ the doctor said, shaking his head sadly. ‘It’s at times like these I wonder if we did the right thing when we abolished public flogging. Anyway, let me know if he is charged. I’d be only too happy to testify in this case.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  Kevin Taylor sat drink in hand, watching the shadows lengthen as the fiery disk of the sun slid lower and finally disappeared behind the trees. It was a beautiful evening, but he was aware of none of it, because his inner eye refused to see beyond the scene that had taken place outside the police station in Charter Lane earlier in the day. Nor could he stop the seemingly endless tape that kept playing Chadwell’s words over and over again inside his head until he thought it would explode.

  He heard a sound, the light slapping sound of bare feet on tiles as Stephanie came up behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders. ‘Problems?’ she asked as she began to massage the muscles at the base of his neck.

  He could smell the chlorine, and her hands were cool and damp. ‘Did you enjoy your swim?’ he asked.

  ‘It was lovely,’ she said. ‘The water was just right.’ She reached over his shoulder and took the drink from his hand. ‘You should go for a swim before bed,’ she said lightly. ‘It would do you more good than sitting here brooding and drinking. You’re very tense, and you’ve hardly said a word since you came home. Is John being difficult?’

  ‘In a way,’ Kevin said evasively.

  ‘Would you like to talk about it? It might help.’ Stephanie, still in her swimsuit, came around to stand in front of him.

  His eyes swept over her body. If anything she was even more beautiful than when he’d first met her. Small wonder that detective Sergeant hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her.

  He shook his head and held out his hand for his drink. Stephanie hesitated. She was puzzled. This wasn’t like Kevin; he rarely had more than one or two drinks in an evening, even at parties, but something was clearly troubling him. She handed him the glass.

  Kevin drained it and reached for the half-empty bottle. He started to pour, then stopped. ‘Perhaps it would be best to talk about it now,’ he said. He put the bottle back on the table and set his empty glass beside it. ‘Sit down, Steph, and I’ll tell you what John Chadwell told me this afternoon.’

  He didn’t know how long he had been sitting there, but dusk was fading to black, and stars had been visible for some time. Steph was somewhere in the house; he could hear her moving about.

  The sound didn’t register at first, although he’d heard it often enough. It was the sound of the garage door going up, followed by the sound of a car being started.

  ‘Where the hell . . .?’ He sucked in his breath. ‘Oh, God, no!’ he whispered as he pushed himself out of the chair. ‘Steph?’ he bellowed as he ran through the house. ‘Steph, no! For God’s sake, stop!’

  He reached the front door and flung it open in time to see the rear lights of his wife’s car disappearing into the night.

  John Chadwell sat in semi-darkness. The television was on, but he had long ago lost interest in the programme. He was still trying to work out what he should do about Amy.

  The atmosphere inside the car as he and Kevin had driven from the police station to Chadwell’s place of work at the town hall had been, to say the least, extremely tense, and when Chadwell had tried to say something before alighting from the car, Kevin had cut him off. ‘You’re a liar,’ he’d snapped, ‘and I don’t believe you. So just shut up and get out!’ He’d barely given Chadwell a chance to get clear of the door before slamming the car into gear and driving off, spraying gravel behind him.

  Chadwell wanted some time to himself to think about what had happened that morning in Charter Lane, so instead of returning to his office, he got in his car and drove straight home.

  Still chafing about the way the interview had gone – it had really knocked the wind out of him when they said they knew about his visit to the Rose and Crown – to say nothing of Kevin Taylor’s attitude afterwards, it hadn’t helped his temper when he’d found Amy wasn’t there when he got home. He tried to call her mobile, but she’d either switched it off or let the battery die. Either way it was typical of the woman. Scatterbrain, no thought for anyone but herself. Fuming, he’d slammed the phone down and marched into the kitchen. He was hungry, but thanks to the police, his lunch was still sitting in the fridge at the office.

  He’d made a sandwich and taken it and a cold beer into the garden to sit in the shade of the apple tree and try to calm down. But he’d barely settled himself in the wicker chair before the woman from next door came out and pretended to fuss with her flowers before she noticed him.

  ‘Oh, hello, Mr Chadwell,’ she said, feigning surprise. ‘Is your wife all right, then? Accident was it? The car didn’t look damaged when they took it away, but then, you can’t always tell, can you? Was she hurt? I mean she looked all right when she got into the police car, but then, you never know, do you?’

  Now, sitting here in the gloom, he felt once again the chill that had gone through him when his neighbour explained what had happened that morning: Amy’s car loaded on to a trailer, and Amy being taken away in a police car. He couldn’t remember what he’d said to the woman, but whatever it was it had got rid of the nosy old cow, because she’d scuttled back indoors and slammed the door behind her.

  And then there had been the phone call from that surly Detective Sergeant Ormside, telling him that Amy had been helping them with their enquiries when she’d been taken ill. He’d gone on to say that she was now in the hospital, where it had been determined that she was haemorrhaging internally due to multiple injuries to the body, and she was now in surgery.

  ‘Mrs Chadwell was unable to tell us how she came by her injuries,’ the Sergeant continued, ‘and we were hoping that you might be able to help us. Was she in an accident, do you know, sir?’

  His first thought had been to tell Ormside that any injuries Amy might have mu
st have been caused by the police themselves, but instinct warned him to tread carefully until he knew more. After all, Amy couldn’t have been hurt that badly, and the Sergeant had said she hadn’t told them anything, so what were they up to?

  ‘If she was, it must have happened while I was there at the station myself this morning,’ he said, sounding concerned, ‘so I don’t know any more than you do, but I’ll go down to the hospital immediately. And thank you for letting me know.’

  ‘Just one thing, sir. We are concerned about how your wife came by those injuries, and we are hoping you can help us in this regard. So, if you wouldn’t mind, sir, we’d like you to come by the station – after you’ve seen to your wife, of course, sir. Perhaps tomorrow . . .?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Sergeant. And thanks again.’

  Now, eyes closed, Chadwell recalled how his hands had shaken so much that he’d had trouble replacing the phone. Had Amy talked, he wondered? He pushed the thought away. No, she couldn’t have or they would have been at the door by now. Besides, she wouldn’t dare!

  He hadn’t wanted to go to the hospital, but he didn’t see any way around it.

  They’d had to remove one kidney, but he was assured that she’d make a full recovery. After having done his duty, he’d come home and spent much of the evening wandering about the house, or trying to watch television, and going to the window every few minutes to see if he could spot any ve-hicles he didn’t recognize in the street.

  Chadwell stood up and stretched and rubbed his eyes. It was getting late, but he knew he wouldn’t sleep if he went to bed. He went to the window again. There were more cars in the street now, but then there always were late at night with residents returning after an evening out. He didn’t really have anything to worry about, he kept telling himself, but on the other hand he wouldn’t be able to feel completely safe until he could talk to Amy and find out what she had or hadn’t said.

  But then, there was her car. He’d almost forgotten that. Not that the police could learn much from it, but then there was always the chance that . . .

  The doorbell rang. He pressed his face against the window, but all he could see by the light from the street was the blurred outline of a single person standing close to the door. If it was the police, and they had come for him, there would have been at least two of them, and there was no car standing by in the street. Frowning, he went to the door. ‘Who is it?’ he demanded.

  ‘John, it’s me, Steph. Open the door. Please. It’s import-ant.’

  Still cautious, Chadwell put his face close to the opening as he slipped the latch and opened the door about an inch.

  ‘Why . . .?’ he started to say, but the words died in his throat as the edge of the door slammed into his face. He staggered back against the wall as Stephanie Taylor stepped over the sill. Dazed, he clutched at the wall for support. Blood ran from his mouth; one side of his face felt numb, and he could feel a loose tooth in his mouth. He tried to speak, but his tongue wouldn’t work.

  ‘You bastard!’ she said softly. ‘You just had to do it, didn’t you? You couldn’t keep your mouth shut, could you? I should never have trusted you. You’re a coward at heart, John, always have been. A bully and a coward.’ She shook her head as if in sadness. ‘I should have done this a long time ago, but it’s not too late. Say goodbye, John.’

  He made a grab for the knife as it arced upward, aimed at the belly, and felt it slice through his flesh. Blood poured from the gash in his hand. He lashed out with his foot, missed and felt himself falling. He went down hard on one shoulder, shrieking with pain as his arm was torn from its socket. Writhing in agony, he could feel the warmth of his lifeblood draining away; watching in horror as it inched its way outward across the tiled floor.

  Steph stood over him, then dropped to one knee, her eyes fixed on his own as if she wanted to make sure he knew what was coming.

  The bitch is enjoying this! he thought tiredly. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the blow that would finish it.

  He screamed when something heavy hit his chest, smothering him, crushing him into the floor. He couldn’t move. He opened his eyes to see Steph sprawled across his body, her face mere inches from his own. Her eyes were open, vacant, staring as rivulets of blood trickled from her battered head.

  His vision blurred. Someone else was there, a dark figure holding the cast-iron umbrella stand that normally stood behind the front door. He tried to speak, but the effort was too much, and somehow nothing seemed to matter any more as darkness closed around him.

  The young Constable taking calls in the Control Room looked startled. He hit the mute switch on his set and gestured to his Sergeant. ‘I think you’d better hear this for yourself, Sarge,’ he said. ‘It could be a hoax, but I don’t think so. I’ve got a man here who says he’s just killed his wife.’

  THIRTY-TWO

  Saturday, July 25th

  Kevin Taylor was formally charged with the killing of his wife. John Chadwell was fighting for his life in hospital, not so much from the loss of blood from his hand, but from a wound he’d suffered when the knife in Stephanie Taylor’s hand had pierced his abdomen when she fell across his body. Kevin had made a tourniquet to regulate the flow of blood from Chadwell’s hand, and called for an ambulance, but with Chadwell unconscious, the wound to the abdomen had gone unnoticed until the paramedics arrived. The damage was extensive, and the prognosis was not good.

  Kevin Taylor had been remarkably calm, even relieved when he was taken into custody and the charge was read, but Paget, well aware of the man’s reputation as a lawyer, insisted on him being cautioned once again for the record at the beginning of the formal interview conducted by him and Tregalles.

  Taylor had smiled. ‘There’s no need,’ he said wearily. ‘I’ve been living with fear and guilt for thirteen years and I’m glad it’s over. I killed my wife and I am well aware of the consequences, so go ahead and ask your questions and let’s be done with it.’

  The interview began just after nine o’clock on Saturday morning and went on for two-and-a-half hours. Taylor was given every opportunity to avail himself of legal representation, but he’d declined the offer. ‘I don’t need anyone,’ he said, deliberately raising his voice for the benefit of the recorder. ‘Besides, who in this town would want to represent me? Certainly not Ed Bradshaw after what I did to his daughter, and no one else would dare take on my defence.’

  ‘In that case, let’s get started,’ Paget said, ‘and tell me if I’m right. We’re pretty sure that Roger Corbett and John Chadwell were members of the gang who robbed Bergman’s jewellery store and killed two people, but were you also a member of that gang?’

  Taylor nodded. ‘And so was Steph,’ he said, and went on to explain that the whole bizarre series of events that year had begun as a student prank. ‘We were down from university for the Christmas holidays, having a few drinks in a pub one night, when someone mentioned a recent robbery where the man was caught within hours, because of some idiotic mistake, and we decided that any one of us could do much better. So we had another round of drinks and started talking about “the perfect robbery”.’

  Taylor fell silent, frowning slightly as if trying to recall the scene. ‘Steph didn’t say much at first,’ he said. ‘She just listened to us babbling on for a while, then proceeded to pick our plans apart, bit by bit, and said she could do better than the rest of us put together. So we challenged her to prove it – and she did.’

  Tregalles eyed Taylor sceptically. ‘Are you trying to tell us that the robberies were all your wife’s idea?’ he said. ‘The baggy clothes, the flash cards, and remaining silent?’

  ‘It’s true,’ said Taylor, ‘and whether you choose to believe me or not, it was also her idea to use the iron bars as a means of intimidation.

  ‘We thought it was brilliant,’ he continued, ‘but Steph wasn’t finished. She said it was all very well for us to sit there in a pub, pissed to the ears, and talk about it, but we would never know if it would really
work unless we tried it out. She said that she was prepared to put it to the test, and, to put it plainly, asked the rest of us if we had the guts to follow her.’

  Taylor made a face. ‘I make no excuses for my part in all this,’ he said. ‘Even pissed as I was at the time, I could hear warning bells going off in my head, but I was very much in love with Steph, and there was no way I was going to appear to be a coward in her eyes. I suspect the others had misgivings as well, but in the end we all agreed.

  ‘But the one thing we lacked was transport, a getaway van and driver, and once again it was Steph who came up with the answer. Barry Grant. The kid was a whizz with cars, and we all knew he’d stolen cars as a youngster. He’d always fancied his chances with Steph and he’d do just about anything she asked of him.’

  Taylor stopped to massage his temples with his fingers. ‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’ he asked. ‘I’m getting a bit of a headache, and my Paracetamol tablets were taken away with the rest of my things last night.’

  Paget nodded to the uniformed Constable seated by the door. ‘See what you can do,’ he told him. Then he said, ‘Interview suspended at nine twenty-eight for a short break,’ and shut off the tape. He sat back and studied Taylor, who had his eyes closed. He was puzzled by the lawyer’s apparent willingness to tell them everything. He must realize better than most that he was facing a life sentence, yet it didn’t seem to bother him.

  ‘Is it just a headache?’ he asked Taylor. ‘Or is it something more serious?’

  Taylor opened his eyes and shook his head. ‘It’s stress,’ he said. ‘I’m finding this harder than I thought it would be, but I’ll be fine once it’s over. Will it take much longer?’

  ‘That very much depends on you, but there will be questions.’

  Taylor nodded. ‘I understand that,’ he said. ‘And thanks for the break.’

  Tregalles sat fiddling with a pencil, brows furrowed as he tried to work out what was going on. Taylor was no fool; he must understand that he was digging his own grave, and yet he didn’t seem to care. Paget seemed to be taking it at face value, but there had to be something behind it. After all, the man was a lawyer, and as far as Tregalles was concerned, you couldn’t trust any of them.