by Frank Smith
FATAL FLAW
FRANK SMITH
Fatal Flaw.
Copyright © 1996 by Frank Smith.
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Smith, Frank Fatal Flaw ,’ by Frank Smith,
ISBN 0-312-14332-X
* * *
1. Villages—England—Shropshire—Fiction.
2. Police— England—Shropshire—Fiction.
I. Title.
First published in Great Britain by Constable Publishers
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
1
Thursday, 12 November
He didn’t look dangerous as he stood there on the doorstep, the cold November rain dripping from the hood of a cheap plastic mac. But then, he never had, she thought. He’d always looked as he did now; shy and diffident, with that little-boy air of wanting to please.
Instinctively, she looked past him, down the path to the rainswept street, and saw that it was empty. She gripped the door more firmly and wondered whether he would try to stop her if she closed it.
He saw the apprehension in her eyes and stepped back a pace, raising his hands, palms outward in a gesture of reassurance. Colour tinged his pallid face.
‘I’m sorry if I startled you; I didn’t mean to,’ he said.
His voice - it was softer than she remembered. Strange. In her memory it was harsh, more menacing. She’d prayed she’d never have to hear it again.
‘What do you want?’ She had to force the words out.
He looked down at his feet. ‘To - to say I’m sorry,’ he said. Then, with a rush: ‘I know it can never make up for what I did, but I had to come. To tell you myself, and to tell...’ His eyes shifted, probing the empty hallway.
‘She’s not here,’ the woman said sharply. ‘Did you really expect she would be?’
‘I didn’t know. I thought perhaps...’ He shrugged resignedly and trailed off into a troubled silence. ‘I’d like to talk to her. To say I’m sorry. That’s all. If you could...’
‘I don’t know where she is.’ The lie came out bald and flat. ‘Even if I did, there’s nothing to be said. She has a new life now.’ Why had she said that? There’d been no need.
‘I - I see.’ He began to turn away then stopped. ‘Would you tell her, that is if you should happen to hear from her, that I’m truly sorry? I know it can’t change what happened, but I’ve changed. They helped me in there - they really did. There was this psychiatrist who used to come once a week...’
His eyes searched for some response from the woman, but she gave no sign of even having heard what he’d said.
‘I’d better be on my way, then.’
She watched him go down the drive and into the street. He turned to the right and walked to the bus stop. She closed the front door and locked it, then went to the window, standing well back so that he wouldn’t see her watching him.
But he’d know.
He stood there a good ten minutes in the rain before a bus came, never once glancing back at the house. She saw him get on, but the windows of the bus were misted over and she couldn’t see where he sat. The bus swung out, spray flying from its wheels as it gathered speed, and, faintly, she heard the hiss of tyres as it went by. She watched until it disappeared from view, then sat down abruptly on the edge of a chair and tried to stop her hands from shaking.
Friday, 13 November
The alarm went off at seven as usual, but the woman was awake long before that. She’d spent a restless night listening to every single creak and groan of the old house. And yet she must have slept because she’d dreamt. Dreamt of him.
Fancy him coming back like that! Just walking up to the door and ringing the bell, bold as brass. She lay there trying to recall the dream, but it wouldn’t come. Better not to remember it, she told herself as she threw back the covers.
The rain had stopped some time during the night. It was still dark outside. Only the light from the street lamp filtered past the curtains. She shivered as she thrust her feet into slippers beside the bed, then pulled on a woollen dressing-gown and wrapped it tightly around herself. She really must get the gas put in the bedroom this winter. She’d been thinking about it on and off for years, but she’d always put it off.
The puddle of water on the tiles at the bottom of the stairs didn’t mean anything to her when she first saw it. It would be from her umbrella yesterday, she reasoned. And yet she couldn’t remember it being there when she went to bed. It nagged at her in a fitful sort of way as she put the kettle on, but she wasn’t worried about it - until she saw the second puddle beside the back door, and the shattered glass lying on the mat.
She just stood there staring at the jagged hole in the back door window, and in her mind’s eye she saw a hand reaching through to turn the key in the lock. His hand. He’d been here. Right here in the house while she slept. And he wanted her to know he’d been. Her knees began to tremble and she clutched at the wall for support.
Her handbag! She hurried into the front hall and felt a wave of relief when she saw it was still where she’d left it on the side table yesterday when she’d returned from the shops. Quickly, she went through it. Money, keys, credit cards, nothing seemed to be missing. But he’d been through it; she was sure of that. Puzzled, she checked the cupboard where she kept an extra fifty pounds, but the money hadn’t been touched. So it wasn’t money he wanted, but the thought did nothing to cheer her.
Slowly, methodically, she went from room to room but nothing seemed to be missing; nothing was disturbed. What did he want?
Her gaze fell on the piano. The photographs!
The police. She must telephone the police. The woman picked up the phone and began to dial, then stopped and put it down again. No, there was something else she must do first. She picked up the phone again and began to dial a different number.
2
Friday, 27 November
It was dark by the time she came out. She was late tonight. Almost half an hour late. He watched as she descended the broad steps and made her way purposefully to her car in the area reserved for staff parking. He kick-started the bike, pulled his visor down, and went through the gates ahead of her. A bus pulled into the kerb, and he tucked in behind, waiting for her to goby.
She drove a Peugeot hatchback, white with grey trim. That hadn’t changed at least. She’d always been partial to the Peugeot. He let two more cars pass before swinging out into traffic, cutting off a Vauxhall Cavalier as he fell in behind. He ignored the furious bleating of the Cavalier’s horn, and kept his attention focused on the Peugeot. He was sure it would follo
w the same route as it had the night before, and the night before that, but it didn’t do to take anything for granted.
He closed the gap as one of the cars ahead of him turned off. The traffic seemed to be particularly heavy tonight, and he didn’t want to be left behind at the lights. Automatically he moved into the right lane ready for the turn into Bridge Street, then realized that the Peugeot was still in the left lane. Odd, that. She didn’t usually leave it till the last minute.
She went straight through at the lights. With a hasty glance over his shoulder, he cut back into the left lane and found himself right behind the Peugeot. Not that it mattered, really. He was quite sure she had no idea she was being followed.
When they came to the roundabout she took the Woodbourne exit and he was able to drop back as they slid into the steady flow of traffic leaving the town for the weekend. The traffic thinned as the new housing estates dropped behind, but the Peugeot continued steadily onward. Obviously she wasn’t going home. So where was she going? He smiled in the darkness. Perhaps this was what he’d been waiting for.
The road became narrower, winding, yet the Peugeot never slackened speed. She must know the road well, he thought, closing up to avoid losing her altogether. But not too close; no sense warning her that he was there. He would choose the time and place. He was in control. He slammed a gloved fist on the handlebars. ‘That’s right!’ he shouted into the wind. ‘I’m in control now.’
The Peugeot was drawing ahead, its front-wheel drive holding well on the sharp curves of the country lane. He opened the throttle wide, but had to slow almost immediately for a nasty little S-bend. He felt the back wheel begin to slide. Christ! Not now, he thought, as he fought to keep the bike upright. He couldn’t lose her now. The back tyre thumped against the high grass verge, spewing gravel as it caught, and he was out of the skid and still astride the bike. He settled himself more securely in his seat and peered ahead.
The Peugeot was no longer there. The road ahead was straight for perhaps three hundred yards. She couldn’t have gone that fast; it was impossible. Then, out of the comer of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the Peugeot’s rear lights disappearing up a driveway as he shot past the entrance. He rolled slowly to a stop, running the bike up the verge and into the trees before cutting the engine. He walked back and stood looking up at the sign above the open gates.
Glenacres Stables. Of course! He should have guessed.
He hummed softly to himself and did a little dance in the road as he walked back to the bike. She was making it easy for him. Dead easy.
Saturday, 5 December
‘All ready for Christmas over at Glenacres, then, are you, Ernie?’
Ernie Craddock grimaced. ‘Don’t remind me, Reg. Anyway, there’s three weeks to go before Christmas, and to tell the truth it’s a bit slow at the moment. We’ll be busy, though, if the weather holds through the holidays.’
‘They still going to have the hunt on Boxing Day over at the Hall this year, then? I heard it might be called off after all the trouble they had last year.’
Craddock shrugged. ‘As far as I know it’s on,’ he said. ‘Where’d you hear that?’
Reg Lyman shuffled his feet. ‘Oh, somebody was on about it in here the other night,’ he hedged. The landlord of the Black Swan had no intention of taking sides in the ongoing dispute between the pro- and anti-hunt forces, both of whom patronized his pub from time to time.
‘Well, it’s on as far as I know,’ Craddock said. ‘In fact, from what I’ve heard, there should be a good turn-out - depending on the weather, of course.’ He picked up his glass, realized it was empty, and set it down again.
The man behind the bar looked at the glass and cocked a quizzical eye, but Craddock shook his head. ‘No, I’d better not,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the car out back.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Time to be going in any case. See you, Reg. ‘Night all,’ he called as he made for the door.
He stood for a moment allowing his eyes to adjust to the darkness. It wasn’t a bad night. A bit parky, but not bad for December. He buttoned up his coat and made his way around the side of the pub to where his car was parked at the back.
There wasn’t much light back there; just a single bulb over the back door, but it was enough. His car was the one down at the end. He always tried to park it there, out of the way of the yobbos who had trouble finding their way out of the yard after half a dozen pints.
There was a motor bike parked beside his car, and the helmeted man astride it seemed to be having trouble starting it.
‘Being a bit stubborn, is she?’ Craddock said as he came up to his car.
‘Doesn’t like the cold weather,’ the man said as he dismounted. He pulled a small torch from his pocket and switched it on. ‘It just takes a bit of tweaking. Would you mind holding this a minute for me? Save me having to push it over to the light.’
‘I can switch the car headlights on if you like,’ Craddock said.
‘No need for that. This will only take a second.’ The man handed the torch to Craddock. ‘Just shine it down there for me,’ he said. ‘A bit lower...’
Craddock squatted down, torch focused on the engine. ‘How’s this?’ he asked.
‘Couldn’t be better,’ the man said softly, and brought the heavy spanner crashing down on Craddock’s head.
Thursday, 17 December
The lights of the town glowed softly beneath the mist that lay like strands of lucent gauze across the valley. Up here the air was clear, but the road was narrow where the hillside had given way, and Paget drove with care. You never knew when some idiot would come careening round a comer on your side of the road. The local council had been debating what to do about the slippage for two years that he knew of, and probably long before that, but nothing had been done. Nor would it be, he thought, until the roadbed gave way and some poor sod went over the edge.
Not that he was in a hurry for the evening to end. He flicked a sideways glance at the woman beside him, and was rewarded with a smile.
‘Warm enough?’ he asked, turning his attention back to the road.
‘Warm and sleepy,’ she said lazily. ‘I think it must be the wine. Just ignore me if I start to snore.’
He smiled in turn. He enjoyed being with Andrea McMillan. She was so down to earth; so - uncomplicated. They got on well together. No strings; no obligations. Just friends who spent time together whenever they could. Which wasn’t as often as he would have liked, but between his impossible hours as a detective chief inspector, and hers at the hospital, there was little chance of it changing.
The lights were against him at the top of the hill and he had to stop. There was almost no traffic about; it was after eleven and most people would be home by now, but the lights remained stuck stubbornly on red.
Yet why was it, he wondered, that he always felt so guilty when he was with Andrea? He looked forward to being with her; anticipated their infrequent evenings together, and yet this feeling of guilt kept nagging away at the back of his mind.
Was it because he felt that by going out with Andrea he was in some way being disloyal to the memory of Jill? He considered the question but dismissed it. Why was he doing this to himself? he thought irritably. It wasn’t as if he and Andrea were lovers, for God’s sake.
The light was green. He’d been staring straight at it but he hadn’t seen it change. Annoyed with himself for allowing his mind to wander, he swung the wheel hard over and the tyres squealed in protest as he made the sharp turn into Crescent Road.
He cast an apologetic look in Andrea’s direction, but her eyes were closed and there was a half-smile on her face. She looked lovely, he thought as he turned his attention back to the road. She looked...
It wasn’t as if they were lovers!
The phrase echoed and re-echoed in his head as he stared into the darkness. Was that what this was all about? Even as the question formed in his mind, he knew the answer, and his immediate reaction was to reject it.
It couldn’t hap
pen, he told himself. It couldn’t. Not after Jill. He was suddenly warm; uncomfortably warm, and he felt sure that Andrea could see or at least sense his discomfort. He was almost afraid to look at her, but it was as if he had no choice. Her eyes were still closed; the half-smile still on her face - and he knew he wanted her. He wanted her more than anything in the world.
He looked away quickly for fear she would open her eyes and read what must be written all over his face. Don’t be a fool, he told himself. Don’t spoil what you have.
Without quite knowing how he’d got there, Paget found himself in Northumberland Place. He pulled over to the kerb and stopped the car outside number 57. It looked like any other in the row of imposing terraced houses built almost a century ago, but in fact it marked the entrance to a block of flats.
‘Did you get it all sorted out?’
Paget turned off the engine. ‘Sorry?’ he said. He thought he must have missed something. His mind was in such a turmoil. ‘Did I get what sorted out?’
‘You were miles away she said. ‘And you looked so fierce! Heaven help whoever you were thinking about.’
‘Sorry,’ he apologized, not daring to look directly at her. ‘Must have been day-dreaming there for a minute.’
Andrea unfastened her seat-belt, then leaned back and closed her eyes, unwilling, at least for the moment, to leave the comfort of the car. ‘Impossible,’ she said. ‘You can’t day-dream at night. What were you really thinking about, Neil? You looked terribly serious.’
He groped for an explanation. ‘Christmas,’ he said. It wasn’t really a lie; he had been thinking about Christmas earlier in the evening. ‘I was wondering if you have any plans. Do you?’
Andrea opened her eyes, but she didn’t look at him; neither did she answer right away. ‘It’s - difficult,’ she said at last. ‘We’re still terribly short-staffed, and it’s hard to plan ahead. I’m afraid I won’t have much time off until after the New Year.’ She hesitated as if about to add something else, but apparently thought better of it. Instead, she said: ‘What about you?’
