Night Fall

by Frank Smith

  ‘So, if not a friend, I’m wondering why he would come to you rather than one of your sales staff,’ Paget said.

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, that’s simple enough. I was one of the sales staff when Gavin bought his first car from us, so he continues to come to me. If he’s serious about buying, I turn him over to one of our sales people to close the deal. But why are you asking? What’s this all about?’

  Tregalles spoke up. ‘We’re trying to trace his movements during the past few days, and we found your business card in his pocket,’ he said. ‘You say he was here on Tuesday?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Thinking of buying a new car, was he?’ He nodded in the direction of the showroom.

  Fulbright shook his head. ‘Hardly,’ he said. ‘I’m sure he’d have liked to, but to be honest, I very much doubt if he could afford it, not with the divorce and all.’

  ‘So why did he come in, then?’ asked Paget.

  ‘He was on a fishing trip,’ Fulbright said. ‘Fishing for a price on the car he wanted to trade in. You know how it is: you’re toying with the idea of trading your car in, so you try to get a feel for the market and find out what your old car might be worth. Doesn’t do any good, of course, because we never make a valuation on something we haven’t seen recently, so I told him the same as I tell everyone else: bring it in and we’ll take a look at it.’

  ‘Do you recall the make and model of the car he was talking about trading in?’

  ‘Yes. It was a Nissan X-Trail station wagon, 2006. As I said, I sold it to him myself, back then.’

  ‘Was he going to bring the car in for valuation?’

  Fulbright shrugged. ‘He said he would, but I suspect he was going to try other dealers as well to see if he could coax them into giving him a price. I doubt if he would have succeeded, but people like to try.’

  ‘Did you talk about anything else?’ Paget asked. ‘Other than cars, I mean.’

  Fulbright shrugged. ‘Not really. I’d heard about his divorce and we spoke briefly about that, but I can’t remember anything else of consequence.’ His frown deepened. ‘But I don’t understand what this has got to do with Gavin’s death. Why are you asking all these questions?’

  Paget got to his feet. ‘As Sergeant Tregalles said earlier, we are trying to trace Whitelaw’s movements in the days leading up to his death, and to establish his state of mind. Would you say he was in good spirits when he left you on Tuesday?’

  Fulbright shrugged. ‘As far as I could tell, he seemed to be his usual self.’

  ‘Then thank you, Mr Fulbright. If you should think of anything else that you talked about, even if it seems insignificant, please give me a call.’ He took out a card and handed it to Fulbright.

  Tregalles stood up and Fulbright came out from behind his desk to usher them to the door, then handed each of them a card. ‘And please do keep us in mind if you should need new cars, either personal or for business. I could give you a very good deal either way.’

  ‘We will,’ Paget assured him. He paused at the door. ‘Did Whitelaw speak to anyone else while he was here?’ he asked.

  ‘Just my receptionist, Anita Chapman, when she showed him into the office.’

  ‘Right. Then thanks again, Mr Fulbright. We’ll have a word with her on our way out.’

  ‘Not much help there,’ Tregalles observed as they drove away. ‘From the receptionist, I mean. Good looking woman, though. Bet she hasn’t done the business any harm.’

  ‘But she did call Whitelaw by his first name,’ Paget pointed out, ‘and she knew about the divorce, so I suspect both she and her boss knew the man better than Fulbright led us to believe. And, since I can’t think of a reason why Whitelaw would go in there to talk about trading in a car he’d sold months ago, I think Mr Fulbright’s lying about the reason for Whitelaw’s visit. The question is, why, and what did they talk about? I think I’ll have Len do a bit of digging into that man’s background.’

  Paget didn’t speak again until they pulled into Charter Lane. ‘What did you say they call Mike Fulbright on the rugby field?’ he asked as they got out of the car. ‘The Avenger?’

  ‘That’s right. He’s—’ Tregalles stopped. ‘Oh, come on, boss. Mike Fulbright?’ The sergeant sounded genuinely shocked. ‘You’re not thinking he’s our killer, are you? He’s the Grinders’ star player.’

  ‘Just a thought, Tregalles,’ said Paget mildly. ‘But the word “Avenger” does start with a capital A.’

  Ormside waved both men over to his desk when they entered the room. ‘I have Dr Starkie’s autopsy report on Whitelaw,’ he told them as they approached. ‘Nothing fancy about this one, by the look of it. There was a lot of damage done to the back of the head when he hit the ground, but there was also a separate injury, a blow that left a curved indentation on the left side of the head. Starkie says the blow might have been enough to kill him, but he thinks it more likely that it merely stunned him. The weapon used was the proverbial blunt instrument, possibly a piece of one-inch metal pipe.’

  Ormside tilted back in his chair and locked his fingers behind his head. ‘And he could very well be right,’ he concluded, ‘because one of Charlie’s people found just such a piece of pipe in the bottom of a waste bin inside the door leading out onto the roof. It’s gone to forensic for examination, but it’ll be next week before we know if there’s any blood, hair or useful fingerprints on it. But it is the right shape and size.’

  ‘So,’ said Paget, ‘I take it he’s suggesting that Whitelaw was lured to the roof on some pretext or other, then hit on the head the moment he stuck his head out. And I think he’s right when he says he doesn’t think the blow killed Whitelaw, because the man’s hands and mouth were taped. He was probably hauled to his feet, then frog-marched to the edge of the roof and pushed off. Also, as Starkie pointed out to me at the scene, there was a fair bit of blood on the dressing on his forehead, which suggests that Whitelaw was still alive, but hopefully unconscious, when the letter A was carved in his forehead.’

  There was a memo on Paget’s desk when he arrived back at the office, and a similar message on his voice mail, both from Fiona, asking him to set aside some time, following the briefing on Monday morning, to discuss staffing levels and the role of key personnel in his section with Superintendent Pierce.

  ‘Whatever that means,’ he muttered under his breath. Didn’t she realize she would be wasting her time? There was no way Brock was going to budge on manpower, and what she meant by ‘the role of key personnel’, he had no idea. He was about to toss the memo when he remembered what Grace had said, and decided he was being churlish. If a similar message had come from Alcott he wouldn’t have responded that way at all. In fact he would have welcomed the superintendent’s interest in the subject, no matter what the outcome.

  He looked at the clock, twenty past five. Fiona would be gone, but Amanda might still be there. He rang her number, but was greeted by her voice mail, asking him to leave a message after the tone . . .

  Mike Fulbright rolled over on his back and said, ‘Sorry, ’Nita, but it isn’t working, is it? Too much on my mind, I’m afraid.’

  Anita Chapman pulled the covers over her naked body. ‘No, it’s not working,’ she said peevishly. ‘I thought you’d died halfway through. Not exactly flattering, Mike. What’s the matter? I knew there was something wrong the minute you came in. Is it something to do with the police? They were asking me about Gavin after they came out of your office. What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing’s going on,’ he snapped irritably. He raised himself on one elbow and reached for the glass half full of whisky on the night table and drank. ‘It’s nothing.’

  Anita pulled herself up in bed. ‘I’m not a fool, Mike,’ she said, ‘so don’t treat me like one. Something is wrong, so tell me.’

  Fulbright glared at her. ‘I told you, it’s nothing! As for what happened just now, I’m just tired, that’s all. Anyway, it’s time I left. Rachel invited some people in for drinks arou
nd eight, so I’d better be going.’ He drained the glass and swung his legs out of bed.

  ‘You didn’t say anything about that when you came in. You just thought that up, didn’t you?’

  ‘So what if I did?’ he snarled. ‘You and your damned questions. I have to go.’ He softened his tone as he began to dress. ‘Sorry,’ he said brusquely. ‘Didn’t mean to snap at you. But I do mean it when I say there’s nothing for you to worry about.’

  Anita eyed him stonily. She knew he was lying or at least holding something back, but there was no point in pushing it with Mike. Push him too far and you’d pay for it; she’d learned that a long time ago. But she’d seldom seen him like this. ‘Will I be seeing you over the weekend?’ she asked. ‘I’m not at work tomorrow, remember? And Graham will be away until the middle of next week.’

  ‘I’ll have to see,’ Mike said vaguely. ‘I’ll call you.’

  But calling Anita was the farthest thing from his mind as he drove home. It looked as if Gavin had been right after all, but he’d dismissed the warning. Now Gavin was dead, killed in the same way as the other two. But an A carved in their foreheads? Bullshit! That was an invention of Gavin’s, it had to be. There’d been no mention of anything like that in the papers or on radio and TV. Gavin must have made that up to try to convince him.

  But the fact remained that all three men were dead. The first two could have been a coincidence, and that was what he’d told Gavin, but three . . . He couldn’t ignore that. An involuntary shiver ran through his heavy frame. He wasn’t afraid, he told himself. If anyone wanted to have a go at him, they’d find him a tougher nut to crack than Billy Travis, or Dennis, or Gavin. But it was worrying, just the same. And why now?

  ‘Oh, no, not again,’ Grace groaned. ‘You can’t keep doing this to yourself, Neil. You have to take some time off. You’re going to make yourself ill if you keep working at this pace, and I’m sure it would do you more good to get out in the fresh air instead of spending the day in the office. The weather forecast’s good and it’s been months since you were last out. We’re doing the circular route, beginning and ending in Clun, so I’ll have to get to bed early if I’m to be up and on the road by six thirty. Starting time is eight o’clock. I’m sure you’d enjoy it, Neil. It’s a reasonable distance, roughly nineteen kilometres – eleven and a half miles, if that sounds better. It’s a mixed group, so we’ll be going at a leisurely pace, and I know you haven’t done that route before. What do you say?’

  ‘Believe me, Grace, I’d like nothing better than to be out there on a walking tour with you, but with this serial killer on the loose, and having to spend so much time with Amanda, my own paperwork’s been piling up and I’m so far behind I can’t put it off any longer.’

  ‘Then do it Sunday. It doesn’t matter which day it is as long as it gets done, does it?’

  Paget looked sheepish. ‘I wasn’t going to mention it tonight, but I planned on working Sunday as well. I wasn’t kidding when I said there’s a lot to do.’

  Grace shook her head and sighed in weary resignation. ‘I’d come in and help you if I could,’ she said, ‘but as I told you, it’s a new group and I’m team leader, so I have to go.’ She looked at the clock and got to her feet. ‘Anyway, it’s twenty to ten now, so I’d better start getting ready for bed. There’s nothing worth watching on TV, so why don’t you come up as well and have an early night for a change?’ She stretched out her hand. ‘And perhaps I can persuade you that there are better ways to spend your time than working all hours.’

  FOURTEEN

  Monday, 24 October

  The Monday morning briefing was depressingly short. Ormside reported that he had spoken to a number of Whitelaw’s colleagues. ‘As you can imagine, there was a reluctance to speak up against one of their own, but the picture I came away with was that, even though he was still only a PC, Whitelaw used his seniority to intimidate the junior officers. He borrowed money from them, none of which he ever paid back, and I think there’s little doubt he was hated by the WPCs and female civilian staff alike. We also know from the record of his divorce that he was unfaithful, abusive and addicted to gambling, so if we’re looking for a motive for murder, we shouldn’t have to look far.

  ‘However,’ he continued, ‘while we can’t ignore those as potential lines of enquiry, the fact remains that the manner of his death matches the MO of the two previous deaths of Travis and Moreland, so that still remains front and centre as far as motive is concerned.’

  ‘Could be a copycat killing,’ one of the men suggested. ‘Someone smart enough to take advantage of the way the other two were killed. Throw us off the track.’

  ‘Except for the letter A on his forehead,’ Ormside said. ‘That still hasn’t been made public. No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘But it was known by a lot of us,’ the man persisted, ‘and you said yourself, Sarge, there were people who hated him.’

  ‘Fair point,’ Ormside conceded. ‘All right, we’ll keep it in mind.’

  The boxes from the storage locker had been emptied, their contents examined, catalogued, and then repacked and sent to the evidence room. Except for one box containing files and legal papers that had yet to be examined.

  Hardly a promising start to the week, thought Paget grimly as he made his way upstairs. And the thought of having to tell Amanda Pierce, once again, that they were no closer to finding the killer than they had been on day one did not sit well. He’d had dry spells on other cases, but somehow it had been different when Alcott was in charge. This time it wasn’t just different; it was personal as well.

  ‘Surely it can’t be that bad, Mr Paget?’

  Startled, he looked up to see Fiona sitting at her desk. So immersed in his own concerns had he been that he had all but walked right past her. ‘Sorry, Fiona,’ he said, forcing a rueful smile. ‘I’m afraid I was miles away, and I’m afraid the answer is yes, it is that bad.’

  ‘The serial killer?’ Fiona said. ‘I know. I was downstairs a while ago, and you could cut the atmosphere with a knife. But I’d better not keep you,’ she said briskly, with a flick of the head in the direction of the closed door. ‘Superintendent Pierce is expecting you, so you can go in.’

  Amanda was standing by the window, looking out. She held a mug of coffee in both hands as if to warm them, and she turned to face him as he entered. She wore a stylish two-piece tan-coloured suit, and a crisp white blouse with a high collar under the jacket. She looked very smart, very cool, every inch the executive as she turned to greet him. ‘Good morning, Neil,’ she said, and waved him to a seat.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said stiffly as he settled into the chair.

  ‘Would you like a coffee before we begin?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘I had some downstairs,’ he said, ‘so thanks but no.’

  Amanda walked over to her desk and sat down. ‘I think we can dispense with a report on this morning’s briefing,’ she said tersely, ‘because I had a word with DS Ormside earlier, and he told me where we stand. It’s not good, and I don’t like it, but there’s nothing to be gained by my taking my frustration out on you. So let’s deal with things we can do something about. But first, a question: after you left the Met, you came into Westvale Region as an inspector, but when you were promoted to chief inspector, the position you left behind was never filled. Can you tell me why that was?’

  ‘In theory, the job’s still open,’ he said, ‘but if you have any thoughts of posting it, I suggest you forget it. It’ll die on Mr Brock’s desk. It’s his way of cutting costs, and I don’t think there ever was an intention to fill it. In effect, the two jobs were combined.’

  Amanda nodded. ‘I did wonder if it was something like that,’ she said. Then, ‘You were working here all through the weekend, weren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘as were you, I believe?’

  ‘True,’ she said, ‘but in my case I’m coming into a new job and I have some catching up to do. But I don’t intend to ke
ep it up, and neither should you. How many weekends have you had off in the last six months, say? Complete weekends, Saturday and Sunday.’

  ‘It’s a nice thought,’ he said, avoiding the question, ‘but with the way work’s piling up and with a serial killer running loose, it’s just not possible.’

  Amanda sat back and clasped her hands together. ‘Then perhaps we should be making use of the resources we have to better advantage so it is possible,’ she said. ‘I’ve been talking to your sergeants,’ she continued, then waved a hand in the air as she saw he was about to speak. ‘No, I wasn’t going over your head, Neil. I just wanted to get to know them a little bit better and let them get to know me as well.’

  Amanda leaned forward to rest her arms on the desk. ‘You have some good people,’ she said quietly. ‘In fact, with the recent promotion of DS Forsythe, we seem to have a surplus of sergeants, at least for the foreseeable future, and I think we should take advantage of that while we can, because I’d like you to spend less time out in the field and more time doing what you’re supposed to be doing as a DCI.’ She held up her hand as he started to protest. ‘That isn’t a criticism,’ she said. ‘I can imagine what it must have been like around here following Superintendent Alcott’s departure. You’ve been trying to do this job as well as your own, and you’ve been spending far too much time out in the field doing the work of others. Tell me, what is your honest assessment of DS Tregalles? Is he ready to take the next step to inspector?’

  Paget wasn’t sure where this was leading, but Amanda had asked a fair question. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I think he is, if, and I emphasize the if, he buckles down to studying for the exams. I believe he could handle the job, but he’s been dragging his feet on the studies.’

  Amanda nodded. ‘I had a talk with him about that the other day,’ she said, ‘and I think I may have persuaded him that it would be for the best if he did get on with OSPRE. And if, as you say, he is capable of doing the job, I suggest we start using him as we would an inspector, and allow you to spend more time doing your job. You have an excellent man in DS Ormside, and you have a promising DS in Forsythe, who has nowhere to go at the moment. And with everyone cutting staff, her chances of getting a permanent posting are slim, at least for the time being, so let’s use her.