Night Fall

by Frank Smith

  So what else had cropped up, she wondered. Starkie seemed to have assumed that she would know what he was talking about.

  The Donovans were waiting for her when she drove up. Sheila Donovan had stopped crying, but she was leaning heavily on her husband’s arm, and by the time they got her into the back seat, she was breathing heavily and wheezing.

  ‘It’s asthma,’ her husband said. ‘I have her inhaler here. She’ll be all right in a minute. It’s the stress.’

  Listening to the woman’s breathing, Molly wasn’t so sure, so, instead of getting into the car herself, she waited and watched while Alex Donovan coaxed his wife to use the inhaler. Remarkably, Sheila’s breathing settled down within a couple of minutes, and her voice was almost back to normal when she spoke to Molly. ‘It’s all right, love,’ she said. ‘Like Alex said, it’s just the stress of seeing Connie . . .’ She closed her eyes and waved a listless hand as if to brush away the memory.

  ‘You’re sure?’ asked Molly doubtfully. ‘We’re right here at the hospital.’

  ‘Quite sure,’ Sheila said. She took several deep breaths and let them out again. ‘Can we go now?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Molly, ‘but do you mind if I ask you a question first, Mrs Donovan?’ Molly wasn’t sure she should be asking the woman questions considering the state she was in, but she didn’t want to let the opportunity slip away. ‘It might seem a little odd to be asking this, but was Connie ever in the All Saints choir here in Broadminster when she was young?’

  Sheila Donovan looked puzzled. ‘What an odd question,’ she said, ‘but, yes, she was. But she didn’t stay long; just a few months, I think it was. She was fifteen or sixteen at the time. Mad to get in, but she didn’t stay long. But how did you know that?’

  ‘It was just something that came up during the investigation,’ Molly said evasively. And it could be a step forward, she thought as she got in the car. Connie was thirty-two when she died, and if she had been fifteen or sixteen when she was in the choir, that narrowed the search down to one of two possible years: 1994 and 1995. Now, if she could connect Dennis Moreland to—

  The thought was cut off by Sheila Donovan speaking again. ‘You said something earlier on about there being more questions at the station?’

  ‘That’s right. I know it’s a difficult time, so I’ll try to be as brief as possible.’

  ‘What kind of questions?’

  ‘Almost anything you can tell me about Connie,’ said Molly. ‘Friends she may have mentioned, problems she may have had, things she might have told you or discussed with you during your telephone conversations?’

  Sheila looked away, then shook her head. ‘The truth is, I haven’t spoken to Connie for months, and I haven’t been what you might call close to her for many a year. Once she got to be about twelve or thirteen, she changed. We couldn’t agree on anything, and it got worse as time went on. She was never in any real trouble, like with the law or anything like that, but she ran with a funny crowd, and nothing I said or did made a scrap of difference. In fact, if I said one thing, she’d go out and do the opposite. It was as if we were living separate lives from then on, and when I married Alex and moved down south, she might call me on my birthday, if she remembered – I always called on hers – but we had nothing to talk about. So, you see, I’m the wrong person to ask. That girl she lives with can probably tell you much more than I can. Sandra . . . I forget her last name. I’ve spoken to her once or twice and she seems like a nice person, so perhaps you should talk to her. And to tell you the truth, I’d rather not talk about it any more. I’d just like to lie down.’

  Later, as they were getting into their own car in the Charter Lane car park, Alex Donovan thanked Molly for her help. ‘If you should need to talk to Sheila about anything, we’ll be staying at the George until we can sort things out,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how long we’ll be here or what needs to be done, exactly. I suppose we’ll have to see about things in Connie’s flat, and make funeral arrangements and that sort of thing. I’ve not had to deal with anything like this before.’

  Molly took out a card and scribbled a number on the back of it. ‘This is the number to call to find out when the body will be released by the coroner’s office,’ she explained, ‘and if you have any questions, or if you or Mrs Donovan think of anything that might help us, please call me.’ She watched as they drove away, then heaved a sigh of relief as she made her way up the front steps and entered the building. It wasn’t that she was unsympathetic, but if Sergeant Ormside asked her to accompany one more grieving relative – or even a non-grieving relative like Bronwyn Davies – to view a body, she would tell him to get stuffed. A tight smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she visualized Ormside’s reaction to that! Perhaps it would be better to put it another way, she decided, but the sentiment would be the same. She’d had enough. Let someone else do it next time.

  As she walked down the corridor to the incident room, a young uniformed constable came hurrying around the corner. He grinned when he saw her and said, ‘Good news, eh?’, putting two thumbs up as he hurried past.

  ‘Good news about what?’ Molly called after him.

  ‘Didn’t you hear? The bloke you’ve been looking for. The one on TV. Walked in calm as you like half an hour ago. Your boss is in with him now.’

  TWENTY-THREE

  ‘My name is Edwin Redgrave,’ the man said, speaking clearly and distinctly for the benefit of the recorder. ‘I live in Oxford, and the reason I am here today is because my mother telephoned me last night, in a very agitated state, to say the police were looking for me. She said she remembered my mentioning being in the Red Lion last Wednesday evening, and talking to the woman behind the bar, and between that and the picture on TV, she was sure it was me you were looking for. I assured her she had nothing to worry about, and told her I would come down first thing this morning to straighten things out. So, gentlemen, here I am. What would you like to know?’

  He took a card case from his jacket pocket and slid a card across the table. ‘My home address and telephone number in case you should need it,’ he said, then sat back in his chair and folded his arms. Dressed casually, wearing a white shirt, open at the neck, light brown pullover, corduroy jacket and tan trousers, he appeared to be perfectly at ease; in fact there was a certain presence about him. Crowley had said the man was good looking, and he was right: broad shoulders, compact frame, well-defined facial features, a loose mane of dark brown hair that made him look younger than he probably was, and calm if somewhat watchful eyes.

  There was a hint of the academic about him, so Paget wasn’t surprised when he read: Edwin Redgrave, PhD. He clipped the card to the folder in front of him. ‘You say your mother rang you. She lives here in Broadminster, I take it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And you are admitting to being the man who was talking to Connie Rice in the Red Lion last Wednesday evening?’

  ‘I’m not sure I like the way you use the term “admitting”,’ Redgrave said, ‘but, yes, I was talking to Connie Rice that evening. But I had nothing to do with her subsequent disappearance.’

  ‘What did you talk about?’

  Redgrave shrugged. ‘Nothing special,’ he said. ‘It was very quiet in there, and I got the impression that all she wanted was for the shift to end so that she could go home. We exchanged the usual observations about the weather; she did some not exactly subtle probing as to who I was; what I was doing there, and . . .’ he smiled, ‘whether I was married or not.’

  ‘Are you?’ Paget asked. ‘Married?’

  ‘I have a partner,’ Redgrave said, ‘but I’m not sure that’s relevant, so why do you ask?’

  ‘What about your side of the conversation?’ Paget asked, ignoring the question. ‘We’ve been told by the manager there that you were, in his words, “chatting Connie Rice up”. So why were you in the Red Lion? Were you looking for some companionship, perhaps?’

  Redgrave shook his head. ‘On the contrary
,’ he said. ‘I was looking for a bit of peace and quiet, so our conversation didn’t last long, and I left after a couple of drinks.’

  ‘By car?’

  Again, Redgrave shook his head. ‘I was walking,’ he said. He leaned forward to rest his arms on the table. ‘Perhaps it would simplify things if I told you why I was in Broadminster in the first place, and how I happened to be in the Red Lion that night, and then you can ask all the questions you like. All right?’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Paget. ‘Please go ahead, and remember that whatever you say is being recorded.’

  Tregalles shot him a puzzled glance. The interview wasn’t turning out the way he’d expected. The man could be the killer they’d been searching for, but it seemed to him that Paget was allowing him to run the interview. On the other hand, if Redgrave thought he was in control and became over-confident, he might very well trip himself up.

  ‘A bit of history to begin with, then,’ Redgrave said, ‘Nine years ago, my father was the victim in a hit-and-run accident, and he ended up with a fractured skull and brain damage that affected his memory and his ability to control his actions. Prior to the accident, he was a maths and science teacher at Westonleigh, but the accident put paid to that. Since then, there’s been a slow but steady decline in his health and in his mental state, and it’s now reached the point where my mother can no longer look after him. She’s ten years younger than my father, and very capable, but, much as she’d like to, she can’t keep it up. He needs to be in a home where he can receive professional care. Unfortunately, it’s proving all but impossible to get my father into the kind of care facility he needs, so I’ve been coming down here as often as I can for the past couple of months to give my mother a break. We’ve tried to get someone to come in to help her, but that’s almost as hard as getting him into a home. God knows how she’s managed to do as much as she has all these years, because I find it wearing after a couple of days.

  ‘And that’s how it was last Wednesday. My father had been particularly difficult that day, so once we had him settled down for the night, I went out for a walk. I just wanted to get out of the house for an hour or two, that’s all. It wasn’t really raining when I set out, but when it came on heavier, I ducked into the nearest pub, which happened to be the Red Lion. As I said, I had a couple of drinks, chatted with the girl behind the bar, Connie Rice, for a bit, then left after about three-quarters of an hour. I stayed on at the house to help my mother through the day on Thursday, but I had to be back on Friday, so I drove back to Oxford Thursday evening.’

  ‘What kind of car do you drive?’ Tregalles asked.

  ‘A Mazda 6 TS estate,’ Redgrave said cautiously. ‘Why do you want to know that?’

  ‘Where is it now?’

  ‘Outside in the visitors’ parking section, but—’

  ‘Would you have any objection to it being taken in for a forensic examination?’

  Redgrave’s eyes narrowed. ‘What, exactly, does that mean?’ he asked. ‘And why would you want to do that?’ He turned to Paget. ‘Am I a suspect in this woman’s murder?’

  ‘You were one of the last persons to be seen talking to Connie Rice prior to her disappearance,’ Paget pointed out, ‘and we have to look at every possibility. Did you meet anyone you knew while you were walking to or from the Red Lion that night?’

  Redgrave shook his head impatiently. ‘I haven’t lived here for years, so the only people I know are the next-door neighbours, and then only to nod to.’

  ‘Did you make any phone calls? Stop anywhere along the way?’

  ‘No. It was late. I went straight home . . . that is, to my parents’ house.’

  ‘Which is where?’

  ‘Cumberland Crescent.’

  ‘That’s quite a long way from the Red Lion,’ Paget observed. ‘Any particular reason why you went to that particular pub?’

  ‘It’s about half a mile, actually,’ Redgrave said tightly. ‘And I thought I had made it clear that I didn’t set out to go to any specific place. I went for a walk to clear my head. In fact, if it hadn’t started to rain when it did, I would never have gone into the Red Lion at all.’

  ‘And your mother can verify when you got back?’

  Redgrave hesitated. ‘She’d gone to bed,’ he said. ‘I let myself in. I have a key.’

  ‘I see.’ Paget opened a folder and took out a sheet of paper, which he slid across the table. ‘Do you recognize any of those names?’ he asked.

  Redgrave took a pair of glasses from his top pocket and put them on. ‘Connie Rice, of course,’ he said as he scanned the list. ‘Whom I met for the first time last Wednesday,’ he added quickly. ‘As for the others, no, I don’t think so.’ He took off his glasses and handed the paper back to Paget.

  ‘What about Mike Fulbright?’ asked Tregalles.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘I know of him,’ Redgrave said. ‘In fact I played a bit of rugby myself when I was at Westonleigh, and later in Oxford, and I used to follow the Grinders. Is he still with them, or has he retired from the game? I haven’t followed them for years.’

  ‘Have you seen him or talked to him since you’ve been coming back here?’ Tregalles persisted.

  ‘I would hardly be asking about him if I had, would I, Sergeant?’ Redgrave said testily.

  Paget opened the folder. ‘You say you’ve been coming back here on a regular basis these past few months, so I’d like you to give me a list of those dates so I can compare them with the dates I have here. All right?’

  ‘Those dates being when the other people were killed, I presume?’ said Redgrave.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Paget. ‘And the sooner we can verify where you were on those dates, the sooner we can eliminate you from our enquiries . . . or not, Mr Redgrave.’

  Redgrave hesitated, then took a Blackberry from his pocket and said, ‘Right, give me the dates and I’ll tell you where I was at the time.’

  ‘Sorry, Mr Redgrave,’ Paget said, ‘but that’s not the way it works. I’ll take the Blackberry, if you don’t mind.’

  There were three messages waiting for Molly when she turned her computer on, but the only one she was interested in was the one from David. It was addressed to his aunt and uncle, with a copy to her. Perhaps now she would find out what Dr Starkie had been talking about this morning. She scanned it quickly, then more slowly as the gist of the message began to sink in. A cold, hard knot began to form in the pit of her stomach as she read on. David would not be coming back to England any time soon. That much was certain.

  Lijuan, he said, had made it clear that she did not want to return to England with him. He said he’d had a long talk with her, and while she appreciated what he had done and was trying to do for her as her father, she said that after being away from England for six years, her home was in Hong Kong now. Her friends were there and her grandmother was there, and, with her mother gone, Lijuan did not want to be separated from her grandmother as well. What was also implied, if not actually spoken, was the message that, while Lijuan wasn’t rejecting him outright, he shouldn’t expect to walk back into her life as a replacement for her mother.

  David went on to say that Lijuan’s grandmother had not put any pressure on the girl to stay, but he knew that she would be devastated if she lost Lijuan so soon after losing Meilan, her only daughter. However, it was not all bad news: Lijuan had been receptive to the idea that he spend some time there so they could get to know one another better – as long as he agreed not to try to pressure her to change her mind. It seems, he concluded, that her aversion is to England rather than to me, so I’m looking at that as a plus and a starting point in getting to know my daughter again. And since they can use my services here at the Tung Wah hospital for the next few months at least, I can pay my way while I’m here.

  Molly slumped back in her chair and rubbed her face with her hands. Not all bad news, he’d said. She couldn’t blame him for wanting to get to know his daughter ag
ain, but if Lijuan didn’t want to come to England, what if David decided to stay in Hong Kong himself? And Tung Wah hospital for the next few months? What if they offered him a permanent position?

  Perhaps she had been fantasizing about their relationship all along, she told herself as she prepared for bed that night. Perhaps there never had been a ‘relationship’ as far as David was concerned. And yet Molly was sure there had been something between them, right from their very first meeting. But, even if that were true, how did a nebulous ‘something’ compete with David’s need to re-establish a relationship with his daughter?

  Molly got into bed and turned out the light. If he did decide to stay in Hong Kong, would that be the end of it, she wondered. Would she ever see him again? She lay there, staring into the darkness, trying hard to think of other things, but David’s image kept getting in the way.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Tuesday, 1 November

  Amanda Pierce slipped into a seat at the back of the room as Paget was summing up. ‘Redgrave may be telling the truth,’ he said. ‘Perhaps he was just out for a walk and perhaps he just happened to drop into the Red Lion. But he did talk to Connie Rice, and he was one of the last people to see her alive . . . perhaps the last person to see her alive. According to his own records, he was in town when Whitelaw and Moreland were killed, but there was no indication of where he was on the weekend when Travis was killed. He claims he was in Oxford, but those dates had been erased. So we are going to have to try to account for every minute of Redgrave’s movements on all of those dates. That includes talking to Redgrave’s mother, and possibly his father, depending on his condition. And, since Redgrave himself will probably be there, I think it best if both DS Tregalles and DS Forsythe tackle that one together.’