by Frank Smith
Paget turned to the whiteboards where a uniformed constable was ticking off the homes visited in the area, and gardens searched, adding notes when they seemed appropriate.
There weren’t many notes.
‘So,’ said Ormside heavily, ‘did Susan Chase kill him or not? It seems straightforward enough to me, but I get the feeling that you’re not satisfied. So what’s the problem?’
‘Perhaps there is no problem,’ Paget said, ‘but I can’t help remembering the way Susan Chase collapsed when I told her Holbrook was dead. Until that moment, everything she did and said was normal, but the minute I told her Holbrook was dead, she began to stammer; her face turned white and she collapsed, and I just don’t see how she could fake that.’
‘Forsythe was there. What does she think?’
‘She said she thought it was a great piece of acting at first, but now she’s not quite so sure.’
Twenty-Five
Friday, March 20
‘I’m told you have news for me, Len,’ said Paget as he approached the sergeant’s desk next morning. He glanced at the boards where two people were adding notes. ‘Care to fill me in?’
‘Looks like you were right after all,’ Ormside conceded as he joined Paget in front of the boards. ‘I told the men to pack it in at eight o’clock last night if they hadn’t found anything by then, but one of them happened to mention that it was collection day today, so I told them to carry on. Good job, too, because it was shortly after eight they found a black bag in a skip behind the corner shop in Caxton Road. It contained trainers, gloves, shoes, tracksuit, all with bloodstains on them, and a plastic hat – the sort of thing women wear in the shower.’
‘So the killer came prepared,’ Paget murmured as he continued to eye the boards. ‘Where are they now?’
‘Forensic has them. I knew you’d want the results as soon as possible, although I suspect it will be next week before we get them.’
‘In that case,’ Paget said, ‘since Mr Alcott is away, I’d better have a word with them myself and try to speed things up. Anything else?’
‘Yes, there is,’ Ormside said, sounding unusually pleased with himself. ‘I’m waiting for confirmation, but Forensic tells me that they’ve found a match between some of the dog hair taken from Westfield Lane, Holywell Street jobs and Laura Holbrook’s bedroom, to Susan Chase’s dog, Brandy, so I don’t think there can be any doubt now. I think Holbrook and Chase have been in it together from the beginning, but I don’t know which one actually killed Laura, or if they did it together, but both were in Chase’s flat, so both could have picked up hair from the dog. As for the dog hairs still unidentified, Chase could have picked them up from the obedience classes she attended, and it shouldn’t be hard to track those dogs down.’
‘That certainly does put another nail in the coffin,’ Paget agreed, ‘but assuming the reason for killing Laura – at least for Simon – was to regain control of the company, and Chase was willing to help him because she wanted him for herself, why kill Simon?’
‘Perhaps she thought he was beginning to crack?’
‘Possibly,’ Paget said doubtfully. ‘But if he was, he showed no sign of it to us. Anyway, first things first. We need to get another sample of hair from Brandy, because the hair we submitted to Forensic wasn’t obtained legally. That won’t be a problem now we have the search warrant, so make sure they get the samples over to Forensic right away. Anything else before I go?’
‘Charlie said they found an impression of a bicycle tyre in soft earth by the back door, but there’s nothing to indicate that either of the Holbrooks owned a bike. It may not amount to anything – there’s no indication as to when the impression was made – but he said they’ll check it out just in case.’
‘Right,’ said Paget, his thoughts already moving on. ‘I’m going over to the hospital to find out how Chase is getting on. I doubt if she will be in a fit condition to be questioned, but I’d like to impress on her doctor how important it is that we talk to her.’
Susan’s doctor’s name was Barraclough. Paget had seen him around the hospital, but knew very little about him, except the nurses spoke well of him. He was an older man, tall, spare, fiftyish, and soft-spoken.
‘As far as Miss Chase’s physical condition is concerned, her injuries are by no means life-threatening,’ he said in answer to Paget’s question. ‘Her left knee is bruised and swollen, and no doubt somewhat painful, but nothing appears to be broken. She does have a displaced fracture of the patella in her right knee, and that will require surgery. As far as we can tell, not too much damage has been done to the extensor mechanism – that is the bones, muscles and tendons which act to extend the knee – but again there is a lot of swelling, which makes it hard to tell until we can get a better look at it.
‘As I said, her physical injuries are not serious, but she is suffering from delayed shock and uncontrollable bouts of weeping, so I wouldn’t want her subjected to undue pressure. In short, Chief Inspector, I don’t think she is in a fit state to be questioned at this time, and I suggest that you wait until after she’s had the operation on her knee. At least that will be one less thing to worry about, and I think there’s a good chance she will be sufficiently recovered by then.’
‘And when will that be, Doctor?’
‘Ah, now there, I’m afraid, we do have a bit of a problem,’ Barraclough said. ‘Ordinarily, Miss Chase would have been scheduled for surgery today, but one of our surgeons broke his arm while skiing in Austria last weekend, so we’ve had to rearrange his schedule. And to make matters worse, our Mr Featherstone is attending a conference in Helsinki, so we cannot possibly schedule Miss Chase’s surgery until first thing Monday morning.’
‘Would I be right in assuming they also ski in Helsinki?’
The doctor smiled. ‘Cross-country, I’m told,’ he said.
‘Safer,’ said Paget, ‘so let’s hope Mr Featherstone doesn’t break any bones. What sort of recovery time are we looking at, Doctor?’
Barraclough shrugged. ‘Assuming there are no complications with the knee surgery, and her mental health improves, I see no reason why she shouldn’t be discharged the same day. Believe me, Chief Inspector, we don’t keep anyone in longer than necessary these days. Miss Chase will be on crutches, of course, but the swelling on her other knee should be down by then, so she should be mobile. At the very worst she might need a wheelchair for a day or two, but I doubt it.’
The doctor paused. ‘Is Miss Chase in serious trouble?’ he asked hesitantly.
‘I’m afraid she may be, Doctor,’ Paget said. ‘Very serious trouble indeed.’
‘Sad,’ Barraclough said with a shake of his head. ‘She seems to be such a nice person. It’s hard to believe . . .’ He shook his head again and fell silent as they made their way to Susan Chase’s room.
On Paget’s return to Charter Lane, Ormside handed him several sheets of paper stapled together. ‘Something one of Charlie’s men picked up from Holbrook’s BlackBerry,’ the sergeant told him. ‘It’s a series of emails between Holbrook and this bloke Beaumont from Drexler-Davies, and I think you’ll find them interesting. It looks as if they were working out some sort of deal whereby Holbrook’s company would become part of Drexler-Davies. Take a look at the dates. It could be a coincidence, but the first one is dated two days before the Abbey Road burglary, which, if we discount the Dunbar job done by Chloe and her boyfriend, was the first of the series leading up to the killing of Mrs Holbrook.’
Paget scanned the papers briefly. ‘Interesting,’ he observed, ‘especially as Simon Holbrook told us that the last thing he wanted to do was go back to work for Drexler-Davies. I’ll take these with me, but it looks as if I’d better give this chap Beaumont a call and find out exactly what’s been going on between them.’
Later, as Paget was preparing to leave for the day, Ormside called from downstairs to tell him that he had the results of the autopsy on Simon Holbrook. ‘No surprises,’ he said. ‘Holbrook died as a resu
lt of multiple stab wounds. Nine altogether, although three of them were superficial. Only one of them actually punctured the heart, but the others did so much damage to his other organs that he would have bled to death within minutes if the heart hadn’t been penetrated.
‘Dr Starkie places time of death at between four thirty and five thirty, but for all practical purposes he says we won’t go far wrong if we assume he died within a few minutes either side of five o’clock.’
Paget thanked him and was about to hang up when Ormside said, ‘Any luck with the emails, sir?’
‘Not yet,’ Paget told him. ‘I’m told that Beaumont is attending a meeting at head office in Switzerland, and he won’t be back till Monday. His secretary assures me that he will have Beaumont return my call as soon he gets back, so we’ll see what he has to say then. Give it a rest for now, Len, and we’ll pick it up again on Monday.’
Twenty-Six
Saturday, March 21
Molly Forsythe could hardly believe her luck when a shaft of sunlight crept over her face and woke her. Sunshine and a day off? Incredible! She lay there, eyes closed, revelling in the warmth, reluctant to get out of bed, yet wanting to be up to make the most of the day. She opened one eye and squinted at the clock. Ten minutes to seven. Good! She’d allow herself twenty more minutes.
She lay there planning her day. Nothing very exciting. She should really do a proper shop at the new supermarket on the edge of town – it had been there something like four years now, but almost everyone still referred to it as the ‘new’ supermarket. For the past couple of weeks she’d been stopping on her way home to pick up a few necessary items, and she’d fallen into the habit of picking up frozen dinners, because she didn’t want to be bothered with a lot of preparation, cooking and washing up after a long day. The trouble was, it was beginning to show when she stepped on the scales, and that was not good.
Molly slipped out of bed and went into the shower. So, shopping first before the mob got there, and then the remainder of the morning would be spent preparing and freezing single servings of something more nourishing and less fattening than pizza, quiche Lorraine, and sometimes fish and chips. She wasn’t a vegetarian, but she didn’t eat much meat. Given the time, she generally opted for stir-fries, adding a few bits of chicken or shrimp, and sometimes cheese, but she also liked soups, so she would make a pot of that as well if she had time.
Time – there it was again, and if she didn’t get a move on she would find herself wasting another ten minutes looking for an empty space in the car park. Oh, yes, and she mustn’t forget to pick up a gift and a card for her god-daughter, Melissa, who would be five in two weeks’ time. Molly grimaced guiltily as she stepped out of the shower. Melissa and her mother, Jane Thomas, didn’t live far away – just over the border in Herefordshire, in fact – and yet Molly hadn’t seen either of them in months; there simply never seemed to be enough time. Jane, Molly’s best friend since their schooldays, was a single mother who worked full time, so she had little time to spare, while Molly’s job . . .
Molly shook her head. Excuses, excuses, she admonished herself, but it was hard to find the time, and it was going to be even harder in the future, but she should really make an effort to be at Melissa’s birthday party and spend some time with Jane.
Later that morning, with most of her shopping done, Molly drove into the centre of town to the Carriage House Gift Shop, the one owned by Peggy Goodwin’s mother, to look for a special card for Melissa. Mrs Johnson always had a good selection, and perhaps there would be something there for Jane as well. A sort of peace offering to make up for staying away so long.
The bell over the door jangled as she entered the shop. A young girl behind the counter was attending to a customer, while Mrs Johnson, in her wheelchair, was arranging cards on one of the revolving stands. She moved with difficulty, and it seemed to Molly that the woman was even heavier than she’d been when Molly had last been in the shop, a result, no doubt, of a lack of exercise and a penchant for the chocolates so readily available to her.
‘Hello, love. Haven’t seen you for a long time, have we?’ she greeted Molly. ‘What can we do for you, today?’ Her breathing was heavier than Molly remembered. ‘Lovely out there, isn’t it? It’s so nice to see that sun coming in through the window. I thought my poor old tulips weren’t going to come to anything this year, but perhaps this will persuade them to get a move on.’
‘I’m looking for a birthday card for a five-year-old girl,’ Molly told her. ‘Something special.’
‘Top right on the far rack,’ the woman said. ‘I think you’ll find something suitable up there.’
Molly spent some ten minutes reading all the cards, while half listening to another customer telling Mrs Johnson all about her latest grandchild. ‘We’re going up to Chester on the weekend for the christening,’ she said. ‘They’re calling her Penelope Asquith Martin, which neither Fred or I like very much, but Asquith was my daughter-in-law’s maiden name, so what can you do? Mind you,’ she sighed, ‘I warned Roger – he’s my son – that with initials like that I just know she’s bound to be called Pam at school, so you can forget Penelope.’
Molly settled on a very pretty card featuring a kitten tangled in a skein of wool, peeking out guiltily from beneath a chair. She looked at the various boxes of chocolates, but decided to give that idea of a gift for Jane a little more thought.
The woman who was going up to Chester on the weekend left the shop, and Mrs Johnson turned her attention to Molly as she approached the counter. ‘You’re that policewoman, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘The one who’s been talking to our Peggy?’
Molly nodded. ‘Yes, I am,’ she said cautiously. It was hard to tell by the woman’s tone what might be coming next. But whatever Mrs Johnson was about to say was cut off when a young dog pushed its way through a partly open door at the back of the shop.
‘Come to see who I’m talking to, have you?’ said Mrs Johnson as the dog trotted to her side. She reached down to fondle the dog’s ears.
Molly stared. ‘Brandy?’ she said. ‘What on earth are you doing here? I thought you were with one of the girls from the shop.’
Mrs Johnson chuckled. ‘Oh, you know Brandy, do you?’ she said. ‘But then, of course you would, wouldn’t you? But you’re wrong; this isn’t Brandy; this is Gypsy, Brandy’s sister. Identical twins, they are. It’s easy to make a mistake.’
Molly, still staring, couldn’t believe it. ‘You are joking, aren’t you, Mrs Johnson? This is Susan Chase’s dog, isn’t it? I saw her at the shop only yesterday.’
‘Go over there and call her, then,’ the woman said. ‘See if she comes to you.’
Molly moved a few feet away and squatted down. ‘Come on, then, Brandy,’ she coaxed. ‘You know me.’
The dog eyed her curiously but remained where she was.
‘Gypsy.’ Mrs Johnson patted her lap. ‘Come on, then, girl,’ she called. The dog turned immediately and put her paws on Mrs Johnson’s lap.
‘Well, I’ll be . . .’ said Molly as she stood up again. ‘I could have sworn that was Brandy. She’s beautiful, whoever she is, and I’m especially fond of Shelties.’
‘You like dogs, then, do you?’ Mrs Johnson asked.
‘I do, and I’d love to have one, but with my job it wouldn’t be fair. I never know when I’ll be home or for how long.’
Mrs Johnson swung her chair around. ‘Come out back with me, then,’ she said as she made for the door, ‘and you can see the two dogs together. I was going to make myself a cup of tea, so why don’t you stop and have one with me?’
Molly hesitated, but her curiosity had been aroused by the appearance of the dog, which she still had trouble believing was not Susan’s dog, Brandy. ‘I can’t stop long,’ she said, but Mrs Johnson was already at the door, leaving Molly little choice but to follow.
‘Close the door,’ Mrs Johnson said sharply as Molly was surrounded by dogs. ‘Gypsy’s the only one allowed in the shop, and the others will s
oon settle down once they’ve had a good sniff of you. The Golden Lab is Rory; he belongs to a friend of mine who’s in hospital. Misty, the cairn, has been here for a couple of weeks, but she goes home tomorrow, and I know I shall miss her. The springer is called Robbie. His master’s work takes him up to Aberdeen from time to time, so Robbie stays with me. Then there’s poor old Sam.’ She pointed to a large black dog of indeterminate breed stretched out in a patch of sunlight. ‘He’s twelve, and he has rheumatism, so he loves the warmth. Poor old thing. I’ve had him since he was eight weeks old.
‘Ah, yes, and there’s my little Brandy,’ she said as the twin of Gypsy trotted into the room and paused, tail wagging gently. ‘Aren’t they like two peas in a pod? Michelle – that’s Michelle Marshall, the one who looks after the shop whenever Susan’s away – says the police even took samples of poor Brandy’s coat while they were searching Susan’s flat, though why they would want to do that, I don’t know.’
It was strange, thought Molly. Mrs Johnson knew that Molly was a policewoman, yet she didn’t seem to connect her directly with what had happened to Susan Chase.
‘Call her,’ the woman urged Molly. ‘See if she remembers you.’
Molly bent and called to the dog. The Sheltie hesitated only for a moment before trotting forward to sniff at Molly’s outstretched hand. ‘It’s amazing,’ she said as she looked from Brandy to Gypsy and back again. ‘How do you tell them apart?’
The older woman’s face creased in a secretive smile. ‘Ah, well,’ she said, ‘they were from one of my litters, weren’t they, my dear? You get to know their little ways. But you can tell if you look at their ears. Gypsy’s ears are tipped more than Brandy’s, and the left one is tipped a little bit more than the right. As a matter of fact, we were worried that Brandy’s ears weren’t going to tip at all, but they did in the end, but not quite as much as Gypsy’s.’
