The Cold Hand of Malice

by Frank Smith

  And not before time, thought Paget as he moved toward the door. ‘But we still need to talk to Mr Bryce,’ he said. ‘Do you have any idea when he might be home, or where we might find him?’

  ‘No idea. Honestly,’ she said with a vigorous shake of the head. ‘I really don’t know. Tim went out early and said he didn’t know when he’d be back. It’s my day off today, and I had hoped to see something of him myself, but with him out looking for a job every day, I hardly see anything of him at all. Not that I’m complaining, because I know it’s hard on him as well. As he says, with the economy in a downturn, it’s not easy finding another job even with all his qualifications. Tell you the truth,’ she ended, cuddling the baby to her, ‘I think we’ve seen more of the babysitter lately than we have of Tim. She comes in while I’m at work.’

  Paget took out his card and offered it to her. ‘Ask him to ring me at this number when he does come back,’ he said.

  ‘Put it on the mantle,’ she told him. ‘I’ll tell Tim when he comes in, but it will be up to him whether he calls or not.’

  Once outside, Paget took a deep breath and exhaled thankfully. ‘Pong getting to you in there, was it, boss?’ Tregalles asked guilelessly as they made their way to the car. ‘Granted it was a bit thick, but the kid was carrying a full load when we arrived, and we didn’t give her much choice. She could either feed him or change him, and he was hungry.

  ‘Couldn’t help feeing sorry for her, though,’ he continued as they got in the car. ‘She seems like a nice kid, but it sounds to me as if this Tim Bryce has her pretty well brainwashed into his way of thinking. What she was telling us about him and the company certainly didn’t fit with what we were told earlier today.

  ‘And I’d like to hear him explain this jogging lark several nights a week. I mean three hours or more in the kind of weather we’ve been having? I don’t buy it.’

  ‘I’m not sure she does, either,’ Paget said as he started the car. He rolled down the window and took several more deep breaths. The cloying odour was fading, but not fast enough for his liking. ‘I think she wants to believe him, but I think she’s having a hard time convincing herself. And you’re right; it should be interesting to hear what Bryce himself has to say about that.’

  Eleven

  Monday, March 9

  Sergeant Ormside was there ahead of him as usual when Paget and Tregalles arrived at the same time. Seated at his desk, shirtsleeves rolled up, he held a steaming mug of coffee in both hands.

  ‘Waste of time looking at them,’ he said dolefully when Paget went straight to the whiteboards to see if anything new had been added since he’d looked at them the day before.

  He and Grace had spent Sunday morning at home. Grace, who had been thinking about it throughout the winter, had finally taken the plunge and signed up for a beginner’s art class, so she had shut herself away to read the pre-course instructions and experiment with the paints she’d been told to buy.

  Paget had spent most of the morning washing the two cars and cleaning out the garage, a job he’d been putting off for months on one pretext or another, and he was only too happy to stop when Grace suggested a run into Broadminster for lunch. ‘I have some shopping to do afterwards,’ she told him, ‘and some of the shops have their summer stock in already.’

  ‘Ah. Then you won’t want me along, will you?’ he said, ‘so perhaps you could drop me at the office and pick me up later? It’s appraisal time again, and I’m barely halfway through the reviews of Ormside’s people, and they have to go up to Alcott next week. So give me a couple of hours at least.’

  Ormside had good people, so Paget didn’t find it hard to endorse the sergeant’s recommendations. The sergeant was of the old school, and was inclined to mark a little hard, but he was fair, and those who had worked for him for any length of time knew that and accepted it. Paget worked quickly, and was almost through when he opened the file on DC Molly Forsythe. He scanned the appraisal. Nothing unexpected there – except for the handwritten memo attached to it. Paget read it carefully, then glanced at the calendar. Not a problem, he decided; there were still a few days left. He set the folder aside, but he was still thinking about what the note said when Grace rang to say she was on her way to pick him up.

  Grace arrived just after four, and the last thing he’d done before leaving was to check the notes on the whiteboards. There’d been nothing new then, and as Ormside had said, there was nothing new this morning.

  ‘What about Bryce?’ he asked sharply. ‘Any word from him?’

  Ormside shook his head. He was about to say more, but was cut off by the ringing of his phone. He picked it up, then held up his hand to gain their attention and mouthed, ‘Forensic.’

  They waited while the sergeant scribbled notes on a memo pad, then paused ‘You’re quite sure about that?’ he asked, pen poised above the pad. He listened for a moment longer, then said, ‘Right,’ and made another note. ‘Fax it to me right away, and thanks.’

  ‘Interesting,’ he said as he put the phone down. ‘They’ve examined the wood taken from the broken door jamb on Holbrook’s house, and they say the pry bar that was used could be the same instrument used in previous burglaries, but they couldn’t swear to it in court. Too much splintering of the wood to get a good impression.’

  Tregalles snorted. ‘So what’s so interesting about that?’ Tregalles asked scornfully. ‘I could have told them that much myself.’

  ‘The interesting bit,’ Ormside said, ‘is that they found traces of blood – Mrs Holbrook’s blood – and hair embedded in the splintered wood on the door jamb. Which means . . .’

  ‘That the door was pried open after Laura Holbrook was killed,’ said Paget. ‘And that tells us that Laura Holbrook was the target, and the killer simply tried to make it look as though there had been a burglary. We know she had one enemy in Holbrook’s nephew,’ he continued, ‘and from what we’ve been told and what we’ve seen for ourselves, Susan Chase can’t be ruled out as a suspect. But there may be other reasons for wanting Laura Holbrook out of the way, so, Len, I want someone at the house to go through all her personal records, including anything on her computer that might give us a clue, and I want the same thing done at her office. We’ll need warrants, so I’ll square that with Mr Alcott before I leave. And I want you, Tregalles, to find Tim Bryce and bring him in for questioning. Meanwhile, I think it’s time for another chat with Simon Holbrook, and I think I’ll take Forsythe with me if that’s all right with you, Len?’

  A hint of a smile touched Ormside’s craggy face as he met Paget’s gaze. ‘Quite all right,’ he said. ‘I’m sure she’ll be pleased to get away from her desk for a change.’

  ‘Good. I have to go upstairs first, so have her meet me in the car park in twenty minutes.’

  An interior decorator’s van stood in the driveway of number 9 Pembroke Avenue. The front door of the house was open, and a workman in paint-spattered overalls sat at the bottom of the stairs drinking tea from a plastic mug.

  ‘He’s gone,’ he said when Paget identified himself and asked if Simon Holbrook was inside. ‘Said he couldn’t stand the smell of paint, so he went off to work. Mind you, I don’t think that was the only reason, not that I blame him after what happened up there.’ He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the stairs. ‘I think he just wanted an excuse to get out of the house. He wouldn’t even go in the bedroom to show us what he wanted when we came to see about the job the other day; just told us to do it over in the same colour as it was before.’

  The man set the mug aside and lit a cigarette. ‘Pity about the carpet, though. I mean all it needed was a good scrubbing in that corner where the woman died, but he had the whole thing taken out. Lovely stuff it was, too, but out it came. He said he told them to burn it, but I bet they don’t. Cost of carpet these days, and a big piece like that? Not on your life. They’ll clean it if they can or cut that bit off and sell the rest on the quiet and pocket the money.’

  The man drained his
mug and put the top on his Thermos. ‘Got the time?’ he asked.

  ‘Twenty past ten,’ Molly told him. The man looked surprised. ‘I’d better get started then, hadn’t I?’ he said as he shoved the Thermos and mug into a paper bag. ‘Here’s me chatting away to a couple of coppers when I should be getting on with it. Be my dinner time soon. Mr Holbrook said he wanted it all done by tomorrow, but I told him there was no way, not if he wants two coats, even if it is quick dry. Come to that, I wouldn’t be surprised if it needs three to cover that bloodstain in the corner where she was killed. I told him he should put paper on, but he wouldn’t have it.’

  He wetted his fingers and pinched the end of his cigarette, then popped the butt back in the packet. ‘Can’t afford to waste them these days, can you?’ he said. ‘Not at the price they are. Anyway, nice meeting you. The wife will be that chuffed when I tell her I met the bloke in charge of the murder.’

  Molly paused beside the van as they made their way back to the car. ‘Just making sure I remember the name of the firm not to have in if I ever need one,’ she told Paget as she slid behind the wheel. She snapped on her seat belt. ‘Where to now, sir? The industrial park?’

  ‘Right. Six hundred and something Cavendish Way. I forget the exact number, but it shouldn’t be too hard to find.’

  The front third of the single-storey brick building housing Holbrook Micro-Engineering Laboratories was given over to offices and reception area, while the other two thirds housed the research and production facility. The reception area was open and spacious. The receptionist’s desk and matching credenza occupied the area facing the door, but apart from several comfortable-looking deep leather armchairs, the area was remarkably free of clutter. A deep-burgundy hard-twist carpet covered the floor, and a series of pictures featuring some of the Holbrook product lines were on display around the walls.

  A very young, very thin, long-legged girl stood beside the desk arranging papers. She was dressed – if one could call it that, thought Paget – in a tight-fitting tank top, with about six inches of bare midriff between it and a very short skirt, bare legs and platform shoes. Both ears were studded with clusters of seed pearls, and Paget couldn’t help wondering how she could manage a telephone.

  Somewhat incongruously, she wore a black armband on one of her bare arms. She would be quite pretty with a bit more meat on her bones, he thought, and he was surprised that a businessman like Holbrook would put a young girl dressed like that out front to greet the public.

  The girl moved behind the desk as they approached and smiled brightly as she said, ‘May I help you?’

  The smile vanished, replaced by a worried frown when Paget told her who they were and asked to see Mr Holbrook. ‘He’s in a staff meeting,’ she told him breathlessly, ‘but he said he wouldn’t be very long, so if you would like to wait . . .?’ A long thin arm waved in the general direction of the armchairs.

  The girl waited until they were seated before sitting down herself. She began fiddling with papers, but it was clear that her mind was not on her work. Paget watched her through lowered lids. The girl was bursting to say something and was doing her best to hold back.

  She failed.

  ‘Do you mind if I ask you something, sir?’ she asked in a small voice. ‘I don’t mean to pry, but it’s come as such a shock to all of us, Mrs Holbrook being killed like that, and I wondered if there was any news yet? I mean about who did it?’

  Paget glanced at the nameplate on the desk. ‘I’m afraid not, Miss West,’ he said, ‘but we are making progress.’

  ‘Oh, well, that’s good, then, isn’t it?’ she said brightly. ‘But I’m not Mrs West. I’m Miranda. Mrs West is away. Took ill last Friday and they had to send for the ambulance. Gallstones,’ she confided in a whisper. ‘That’s what someone who saw her yesterday said it was. That’s why I’m here this morning. I usually work in the back, but someone has to look after the phones when they’re all at a meeting, so being as I’m the junior, I’m it. Not that I mind. It makes a nice—’

  Miranda cut short what she was about to say when a door behind her opened and a smartly dressed woman appeared. She, too, wore a black armband. Her manner was brisk but pleasant as she said, ‘Good morning,’ before turning to Miranda to raise an enquiring eyebrow.

  ‘They’re from the police, Miss Goodwin,’ the girl said hastily. She picked up a piece of paper and studied it. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Paget and Detective Constable Forsythe. They’re waiting to see Mr Holbrook.’

  ‘Peggy Goodwin,’ the woman said, coming forward to introduce herself. ‘I’m Mr Holbrook’s personal assistant.’ She was tall and slim. Her handshake was firm but brief, and there was a vibrant energy about her that suggested she kept herself in trim. She had short, fair hair, and deep blue eyes, and while Paget would have stopped short of calling Peggy Goodwin beautiful, he did say she was a very attractive woman when describing her to Grace that evening.

  ‘If you would like to come with me, I can take you to his office now,’ she said. ‘But first, we’ll need to sign you in and give you a couple of Visitor badges. Security,’ she explained. ‘No one is allowed to wander around unaccompanied in here. Not even policemen,’ she added with a smile as she clipped the badge on Paget’s lapel. She had a nice smile, and the perfume or cologne she wore had a delicate tantalizing fragrance.

  She held the door open for them, but paused to speak to Miranda before following herself.

  ‘Ring Mr Holbrook and tell him we are on our way,’ she said quietly. ‘And, Miranda, whatever happened to that lovely cardigan you had on earlier today? The long one. I think you should wear it, my dear.’

  Twelve

  ‘How long have you been in this building?’ Paget asked as he and Molly followed Peggy Goodwin down the corridor.

  ‘A little over a year,’ the woman told him. ‘And I must say it’s a vast improvement over our first quarters down by the river. That was little more than a shed, but at least it gave us our start.’

  ‘So you’ve been with Holbrook Micro-Engineering from the beginning, then?’

  ‘That’s right. I was Mr Holbrook’s secretary when we both worked for the Drexler-Davies Corporation. When he left to set up his own business, he asked me to come with him, and I’ve never regretted it.’ She laughed softly as she added, ‘Although there have been days when I had doubts about my sanity.’

  They came to an office door with the name ‘Simon Holbrook’ in gold on the frosted glass, but as Peggy Goodwin raised her hand to knock, Paget stopped her to ask, ‘Where is your office, Miss Goodwin?’

  ‘That’s mine,’ she said, pointing to an open door down the hall.

  ‘I know you must be busy, but I wonder if you could spare us a few minutes after we’ve spoken to Mr Holbrook? We would like to get as much background information as we can, and since you must have worked closely with Mrs Holbrook, we’d appreciate your input.’

  Peggy Goodwin looked surprised. ‘I’m not sure I understand,’ she said, clearly mystified by the request. ‘Why—?’

  ‘We won’t take up any more of your time than necessary,’ Paget said firmly, ignoring the obvious question in her eyes.

  The woman looked at him for a long moment, then shrugged and said, ‘Very well, then, Chief Inspector, if you think it will help.’ She gave two sharp raps on the door before opening it and ushering them inside.

  If he hadn’t known that Simon Holbrook was head of the company, Paget would never have guessed it from the look of his office. It was a big room with a window overlooking the street; the walls were painted a pleasant, restful green, and a good quality carpet covered the floor, but the place looked more like a storeroom than the office of the head of a successful company.

  A drafting table covered with drawings and blueprints took up almost a quarter of the space; a six-foot high set of shelves stuffed with books and loose-leaf binders lined one wall, while more books were piled on the floor beside the desk. The desk itself was covered with papers, and the
man in the rumpled shirt with sleeves pushed back was pawing through them as if searching for something. Clearly it was the office of an inventor rather than a CEO.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Paget and—’ Peggy began, only to be cut off by Holbrook.

  ‘Yes, Peg, I do know who they are.’ He rose and came out from behind his desk. ‘At least I know the chief inspector,’ he said, turning an appraising eye on Molly.

  ‘Detective Constable Forsythe,’ said Paget formally.

  ‘Please, sit down,’ he said, addressing Molly rather than her superior. He flipped an errant lock of hair away from his eyes with a practised gesture, and waved her to a chair close to his desk. Molly smiled her thanks and took out her notebook. Behind them the door closed softly as Peggy Goodwin left the room.

  Holbrook returned to his own seat, and almost reluctantly, turned his attention toward Paget. ‘Didn’t expect to see you here so soon,’ he said ungraciously. ‘I don’t want to appear rude, but I have a long day ahead of me, so I hope this won’t take long.’

  ‘I’ll try to be brief, then,’ Paget said, ‘so I’ll come straight to the point. We now have evidence confirming our suspicions that your wife’s death was no accident, so we will be concentrating our efforts on talking to the people who were closest to your wife, both at work and outside. In addition, we’ll be looking at everything Mrs Holbrook had in the way of records at home and here at work.’

  Holbrook’s eyes narrowed. ‘Evidence?’ he said sharply. ‘What sort of evidence?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to share that information at the moment,’ Paget told him, ‘but I can tell you that there was no burglary at your house last Wednesday evening; your wife was the intended target, and whoever killed her tried to throw us off by making it appear to be the work of vandals. When we spoke before, you dismissed the idea that your wife had any enemies, but clearly that’s not true, so we need to know as much as possible about events leading up to the time of her death.’