Night Fall

by Frank Smith

  ‘What about the WPCs and our female civilian staff? Did he ever try it on with them?’

  Bates shrugged. ‘I don’t know about that,’ he said, ‘but it wouldn’t surprise me if he did. I mean he couldn’t seem to help himself. He’d try it on with almost any woman given half a chance. Like when we’d stop a woman driver who was speeding or who’d shot the lights. If they were even halfway good looking, he’d chat them up. Didn’t matter if they were married or not.’

  ‘Did you bring any of this to the attention of your sergeant?’

  Bates shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Paget waited, but the man remained silent. It was the old problem: misplaced loyalty. Never squeal on your partner, no matter what he or she may do.

  ‘What about drugs?’ Paget asked. ‘You say he was a drinker, but was he into drugs as well?’

  Bates shook his head. ‘No, sir, I’m sure I would have known if he was.’ He paused, frowning. ‘Mind you, I can’t speak for now. It’s been a while since I rode with him.’

  ‘Just one more question before you go: who would you say was Whitelaw’s best friend here at work?’

  Bates hesitated, then said, ‘Don’t know if there was one, sir. At least not that I know of. Everybody stayed clear of him, because he was always looking to borrow money, and you knew you’d never see it again.’

  ‘Find anything useful?’ Ormside asked when Molly returned to Charter Lane later that morning.

  ‘Afraid not,’ she said. ‘There were no personal papers of any kind. No bank book or a will, in fact nothing much at all. Has anyone searched his locker here?’

  ‘Tregalles is taking care of that,’ Ormside told her, ‘and he’ll be going out to the Kingsway Self Storage lockers on Oldfield Road to see what Whitelaw has stored out there. There’s a picture in his file, so make copies and show it to George Travis and Trudy Mason and Mrs Moreland, and ask them if they know him or can think of anything the three men had in common.’

  ‘Right,’ said Molly, but she looked as if something was troubling her.

  ‘Something wrong?’ Ormside asked.

  ‘It’s just that I can’t understand why Whitelaw would be on the roof in the middle of the night in the pouring rain,’ she said. ‘They say there was no sign of a struggle; no sign that there was anyone else in the room. I don’t understand it.’

  ‘I don’t either,’ Ormside said, ‘but I checked on calls to and from the phone in his room, and he received a call at one forty-eight from a disposable phone. The call lasted two minutes. Twenty-three minutes later, a taxi driver reported a drunk lying in the road, so I think it’s a fair assumption that was when he was killed. Somehow the killer managed to persuade Whitelaw to go up to the roof where he probably knocked him unconscious, tied his hands behind his back, gagged him, then carved his initial or whatever it is on his forehead before pushing him off the roof.’

  Molly shuddered. ‘I just hope we can catch this maniac before he strikes again,’ she said. ‘A photographer, a butcher and a policeman. I just don’t see the connection.’

  Eileen Calder, solicitor, sat with fingers steepled as she looked at Paget over the top of her half-moon glasses. She was a short, plump woman of about forty. Her fair hair, parted in the middle, hung straight down on either side of her face like side curtains without a valance, and Paget couldn’t help wondering if she had ever really looked at the result in a mirror.

  ‘Murdered?’ she said. ‘How terrible.’ The words were spoken without the slightest sign of emotion as she rearranged her features into a look of mild regret. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Chief Inspector, but to answer your question, I did act for Mr Whitelaw during the divorce proceedings earlier this year, but our association was very brief, so there is little I can tell you about the man himself . . . apart from the fact that I didn’t like him very much.’

  ‘Did he leave anything with you? Any papers, his will, anything at all?’

  Eileen Calder shook her head. ‘Nothing,’ she said firmly. ‘As I said, our association was very brief.’

  ‘Do you know if he had another solicitor?’ Paget took out one of the cards found in Whitelaw’s wallet. ‘A Brian Davey?’

  ‘Brian is or was his wife’s solicitor,’ Ms Calder said, ‘so I don’t think you’ll fare any better there, Chief Inspector.’

  Paget put the card away. ‘Is there anything you can tell me about Whitelaw or the divorce proceedings themselves? What, for example, were the reasons for the divorce?’

  Eileen Calder thought about that for a moment. ‘I suppose, since it’s in the public record, it can’t hurt to tell you,’ she said. ‘It was Mrs Whitelaw who sued for divorce and the grounds cited covered quite a wide spectrum. Neglect, infidelity, adultery, physical and mental abuse and so on. In short, Chief Inspector, your policeman was a drinker and a womanizer who abused his wife. Wisely, Mr Whitelaw decided not to contest the allegations, partly because his wife had more than enough evidence to support her claims, and partly because he wanted to keep as low a profile as possible, because he felt it could jeopardize his position in the police force if it became known. And then there was the matter of costs. His biggest asset was his car after the house was sold, and I believe he had to sell that to cover them.’ The corners of her mouth turned down. ‘Even then it wasn’t enough, and now he’s dead, I suppose I can forget about what he owes me. Not that I had much hope before, but still . . .’

  ‘Was there anything in your dealings with him that struck you as odd or strange?’

  The woman frowned. ‘I’m not sure I know what it is you’re after,’ she said. ‘Strange in what way?’

  Paget shook his head. ‘To be honest, I don’t know myself,’ he said, ‘but the man was murdered in a particularly brutal way, and I’m wondering if he ever mentioned any threats or anything like that.’

  ‘No. Our meetings were very brief. There was no time for chit-chat. He was always in a hurry, partly, I suspect, to minimize his costs.’

  ‘You mentioned physical and mental cruelty,’ Paget said. ‘Did you ever get the feeling that his wife might have wanted to harm him in return?’

  ‘I think she was just glad to see the back of him,’ the solicitor said. ‘She moved away, you know. Brian Davey told me she’d moved to Cardiff to live with her parents. No doubt he could give you her address if you need to contact her. In fact I can ring him if you like.’

  Paget got to his feet and shook his head. ‘Thanks, but that won’t be necessary,’ he said. ‘I’m on my way to see him now.’

  ‘Get anywhere with the lawyers?’ Ormside asked when Paget returned to Charter Lane.

  ‘Afraid not,’ Paget said. ‘Have you come up with anything?’

  ‘According to his file, Whitelaw didn’t notify anyone formally that he was divorced, and his ex-wife’s still listed as his next of kin. Nor did he submit a change of address, though it seems that everyone he worked with knew where he was living. The South Wales Police sent someone round to break the news to his ex-wife, and to ask if she would come and identify the body. She said she’d rather not.’

  ‘He was only in his thirties, so what about his parents?’

  ‘Both went their separate ways when they were divorced ten years ago,’ Ormside said. ‘No other relatives on file. I spoke to payrolls in accounting, and they say Whitelaw’s wages used to be paid into his bank account at Barclays by direct deposit, but he had that changed to payment by cheque to a PO box number four months ago, saying his current account was closed. But that’s not entirely true,’ Ormside continued. ‘I had a word with the manager, and he said it was still open, but the most he’s had on deposit for the past two months is twelve quid. He cashed his cheques at the bank, but he never banked any of it. And there’s no record of a safe deposit box there either. Tregalles found his chequebook and a number of legal papers pertaining to his divorce in a cardboard box in his locker, but there’s nothing unusual about them that we could see, so Tregalles has gone out to Oldfield Road to see what’s sto
red out there.’

  ‘We need to settle the matter of identifying the body,’ Paget said, ‘so see if you can persuade Mrs Whitelaw, or whatever her name is now, to come and do it.’

  ‘Davies,’ Ormside said. ‘It’s her maiden name. And I can give it another try, but the chap I spoke to down there said she was pretty blunt about it. She told him she never wants to see Whitelaw’s face again, dead or alive, and wants nothing to do with his funeral, either. He said she was pretty bitter.’

  ‘Try it anyway,’ Paget told him. ‘Apart from the formal identification, we need to talk to her, so it would be better if she could come here and we could do both at the same time. So tell her it’s important that she come. It’s not all that far, so she could do it and be back home the same day. You can tell her we’ll pay for her travel and out-of-pocket expenses.’

  ‘You mean there’s been another one?’ Joan Moreland said in hushed tones. ‘Oh, my God! What is going on, Molly?’

  ‘I really wish I could answer that,’ Molly said, ‘and that’s why I’m here.’ She took out a picture of Gavin Whitelaw and showed it to Joan. ‘Have you ever seen this man before? Or do you know if your husband knew him or had anything to do with him? Please take your time, it’s very important.’

  Joan Moreland studied the picture carefully, then shook her head as she handed it back. ‘I’m sure I’ve never seen him before,’ she said slowly, ‘but I suppose it’s possible that Dennis might have known him through work or the theatre or something like that. Sorry, Molly, but that’s all I can tell you. You say he’s a policeman?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Joan looked puzzled for a moment, then stepped back a pace, eyes narrowed as she looked at Molly suspiciously, and her voice took on a harder tone. ‘I’m not sure I like the sound of this,’ she said. ‘If you’re suggesting that Dennis and this man were involved in something . . . I don’t know . . . something illegal, it isn’t true, Molly. It isn’t. Dennis would never . . . he was a good man; he loved me, he loved the kids, he . . .’ Tears bubbled to the surface and spilled over.

  Molly moved to her side and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ she said quietly, ‘but there has to be something linking these three men, and we have to find out what it is, because there may be others.’

  Joan raised a tear-stained face to look at Molly. ‘Well, I don’t know what it is,’ she said tightly. ‘In fact, the more I think about it, the more I’m sure it was a mistake. I think this madman mistook Dennis for somebody else, and I don’t think there ever was a connection. I’m sorry, Molly, but you’re wasting your time here, because I know very well that Dennis was never involved with this policeman or the other man who was killed.’

  Joan Moreland took a deep breath. ‘I don’t wish to sound unkind, Molly, but I’d like you to leave me alone now. The funeral’s tomorrow and I have a lot to do, and I don’t need this. So please go.’ She shepherded Molly to the front door. ‘And please don’t come back again,’ she said as she closed the door.

  ‘You say he’s the same one who said he knew Billy from when they were kids together?’ George Travis shook his head as he looked hard at the picture again. ‘No, I’m sure I’ve never seen him,’ he said firmly. ‘Billy used to tell me about who he’d seen that day and who he’d talked to, and I don’t remember him ever talking about anybody called Whitelaw.’ Travis sniffed hard then blew his nose. ‘I miss that,’ he said huskily, ‘talking with Billy. He was a good lad. He didn’t deserve to die like that. I miss my boy, I really do.’

  It was late in the day and Molly knew she was probably wasting her time, but since Trudy Mason lived just around the corner, she decided to stop there before going home. So she was taken by surprise when Trudy took one look at Whitelaw’s picture and said, ‘Oh, him. Oh, yes, I remember him all right. Why do you want to know?’

  ‘You know him?’ Molly said. ‘How? Have you known him long?’

  Trudy chuckled. ‘When I said I know him, I just meant I remember him from when he stopped me on the ring road. Tried to chat me up. Tell you the truth I was quite flattered, so I played along and it worked. Let me off with a caution, then rang me up the next day to ask if I’d got home all right. Cheeky sod! I told him yes, I did, and I was ever so grateful for him letting me off, and my husband was, too.’ Trudy laughed. ‘I didn’t catch what he said before he slammed the phone down, but I don’t think it was complimentary.’

  ‘When was this?’

  Trudy thought. ‘Seven, maybe eight months ago,’ she said. ‘I don’t know exactly. It was in the spring. Is it important?’

  ‘To be honest, I really don’t know,’ Molly confessed. ‘Why did he stop you?’

  Trudy grimaced. ‘I was in a bit of a hurry, and I changed lanes and almost cut somebody up. The bloke blew his horn and gave me the finger, and it just happened that the cop car was behind him and this chap saw it all.’ She tapped the picture. ‘Why are you asking? What’s he done? Something to do with a woman, I’ll bet. He’s the sort.’

  ‘He was killed this morning,’ Molly said.

  ‘Killed . . .?’ Trudy repeated. Her eyes narrowed. ‘How?’ she asked cautiously.

  ‘He was murdered in the same way Billy was murdered, which is why we’re looking for a connection between the two. Did you tell Billy about the incident on the ring road?’

  Trudy nodded.

  ‘What was Billy’s reaction?’

  ‘We had a laugh about . . .’ Trudy paused, frowning. ‘Well, I did,’ she continued slowly. ‘I thought the whole thing was hilarious, but Billy didn’t think it was funny at all. He got quite serious about it. Said someone like that should be reported. Went on about it for a while, but I finally jollied him out of it.’ She lowered her voice as if afraid she might be overheard. ‘To tell you the truth, I thought he was jealous, and I was quite chuffed about it.’

  ‘Did you know Whitelaw’s name at the time?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He told me who he was. In fact he made sure I’d remember it. Thought he was God’s gift. You know the sort.’

  ‘And you told Billy who the man was?’

  Trudy nodded once again.

  ‘Did the subject ever come up again? More recently, perhaps?’

  ‘No. After the way Billy went on, I never mentioned it again, and neither did he.’

  ‘What about your husband? Did you tell him about it?’

  ‘Gordon? No. He was away at the time, and I don’t think I ever told him.’ Trudy frowned, thinking back. ‘No, I’m sure I didn’t. I’d forgotten all about it by the time Gordon got home, and it was only when you showed me the picture today that I remembered it again.’

  THIRTEEN

  Friday, 21 October

  It was Tregalles who attended the funeral of Dennis Moreland, and the same sandy-haired man was there taking pictures as discreetly as he had the Sunday before. The two sets would be compared to see if there was anyone who had attended both funerals, yet looked out of place. It was a long shot, but killers had been known to attend the funerals of their victims.

  The funeral was held at the Unitarian church in Radnor Street, and Molly should have gone, but after her brush with Joan Moreland the day before, it was decided that Tregalles should go instead. The small church was almost full. Clearly, Moreland had been well liked, and Tregalles recognized several members of the SuperFair staff, including Moreland’s boss, Norman Beasley. The man looked quite presentable in his somewhat dated three-piece suit, and he was almost obsequious in his approach to Joan as she and the children left the church.

  Following the service, Tregalles drove out to the storage depot on Oldfield Road, where two junior DCs were loading cardboard boxes into a van to be taken back to Charter Lane. Eight boxes in all, three of which were unopened, still bound by tape, while the rest were filled with a variety of loose articles ranging from books and magazines to tools, bits of clothing, glass mugs, a toaster, and assorted mismatched plates and cups and saucers.

  T
regalles took a look inside the locker. Still remaining were a chest of drawers, a small workbench, a bookshelf with one of the shelves missing, a lawn mower, garden tools, a bicycle and a rolled-up braided rug.

  ‘Never mind the rest of this stuff,’ he told the two men. ‘Lock up and take those boxes in to DS Ormside, and if he asks you where I’ll be, you can tell him that DCI Paget and I are off to look at cars.’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Paget,’ Fulbright repeated as he came out from behind his desk to shake hands. ‘Didn’t I see something in the paper about you a few weeks back? To do with those murders out at Bromley Manor? Surprised the hell out of me, I can tell you. Charles Bromley and his wife were clients of mine. You never know, do you?’ Fulbright rubbed his hands together. ‘So, what can I do for you gentlemen? Please, have a seat.’ He returned to his own chair behind his desk. ‘I suppose it’s too much to hope you’re here to buy a fleet of police cars?’

  ‘Not today,’ Paget told him. ‘We’re here to ask if you’ve had dealings with one of our officers recently. PC Gavin Whitelaw?’

  Fulbright’s shaggy eyebrows came down in a solemn frown. ‘I heard about what happened,’ he said gravely. ‘I couldn’t believe it. Gavin was here in this office last Tuesday, sitting where you are now. I know things hadn’t been going all that well for him lately, what with the divorce and all, but he seemed all right when he was here. What happened? They didn’t say on the news, so I wondered if it was suicide.’

  ‘We’re treating it as a suspicious death,’ Paget told him. ‘Were you a friend of his, Mr Fulbright?’

  ‘Mike, please,’ said Fulbright expansively. ‘Nobody calls me Mr Fulbright.’ He put the frown back in place. ‘I’ve known Gavin on and off for years,’ he said, seeming to choose his words carefully, ‘but I wouldn’t say we were friends, exactly. He bought his last car from us and he drops in from time to time, just for a look round. You know how it is with some people; they like to look at the latest models even when they know they’re not ready to buy.’