Breaking Point

by Frank Smith

  Tregalles shoved his chair back and stood up. ‘Do we have an address for the farm?’ he asked.

  ‘Sort of, but let’s take a look at the map.’ Ormside led the way to a pull-down large scale map of the local area and pointed to a brown patch on the edge of Clun Forest. ‘I’d say it has to be on one of those roads there,’ he said, tracing one of them with his finger. ‘Shouldn’t be all that hard to find. Simplest thing would be to go out there and ask the locals.’

  Tregalles eyed the map thoughtfully. ‘Look, Len,’ he said earnestly, ‘do me a favour and hold off on telling Paget about this, will you? Just for an hour or so. Give me a chance to go out there and find out who Gerry Fletcher called, and why.’

  Ormside shook his head. ‘He isn’t going to like it if he finds out,’ he said. ‘You heard him say he wanted to be kept informed if anything happened.’

  ‘But he didn’t say it had to be right away, did he?’ Tregalles countered. ‘If I can get out there and get a line on Fletcher, it might sort of offset the balls up I made of letting him get away in the first place. Just an hour or so, Len. I’ll keep in touch.’

  ‘Well . . .’ It was clear the sergeant wasn’t keen on the idea, but on the other hand, Tregalles did deserve a chance to redeem himself. ‘Go on, then,’ he said, ‘but keep me informed every step of the way. And if Paget should call in I’ll have to tell him.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Tregalles said as he grabbed his coat. ‘Let’s hope Alcott keeps him tied up for the rest of the morning.’

  Fifteen

  ‘Mrs Roper?’

  The thin, sharp-featured woman eyed Tregalles suspiciously ‘That’s right,’ she said, ‘and whatever it is, we don’t want any.’ She would have closed the door if Tregalles hadn’t prevented it.

  ‘Detective Sergeant Tregalles,’ he said, displaying his warrant card. ‘Is your husband at home?’

  The woman peered closely at the card through steel-rimmed glasses before answering. ‘He’s somewhere about,’ she conceded. ‘What do you want him for?’

  ‘Just want to ask him a few questions, that’s all. And, since you’re here, I’d like to ask you a few questions as well. May I come in?’

  ‘Place is a mess,’ she said cryptically. ‘We’ve had the workers in, and I’m busy. So tell me what you want to know and let me get on.’

  ‘I’m looking for a man named Fletcher,’ he said. ‘Gerry Fletcher. Do you know him?’

  Lips compressed, the woman nodded. ‘I know him, well enough,’ she said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘No, I don’t any more than I know where he was over the weekend. He promised he’d be here first thing Saturday morning, but he never turned up. Next thing I hear the police want to talk to him, but they didn’t say what for on the wireless. So what do you want him for?’

  ‘We think he may have information about a missing person,’ Tregalles told her. ‘And the reason I am here is because we understand that Fletcher rang this number earlier today. Did you take the call?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about your husband? Did he take a call from Fletcher?’

  The woman shrugged. ‘Might have done while I was out collecting the eggs,’ she said, ‘but he didn’t say.’

  ‘So you know nothing about the call?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where can I find Mr Roper?’

  ‘He’ll be out the back. You can go round if you like.’ Without waiting for a reply, she closed the door and Tregalles heard the key turn in the lock.

  The yard behind the house was empty, but Tregalles heard the rattle of a bucket coming from inside one of the old stone buildings at the far end of the yard. He was about to walk toward the sound, but stopped to take in the view of the valley behind the farm.

  The ground dropped away sharply to the valley bottom where a line of trees followed the course of a meandering stream. The grass was fresh and green, and sheep, many of them accompanied by playful lambs, were grazing their way across the hillside on the far side of the valley. The air was warm and clear beneath a cloudless sky, and the sun lay over the scene like a golden blanket. Tregalles was a city boy at heart, but even he was impressed with the magnificent scene.

  Off to his left a narrow but well-travelled track snaked its way down the side of the hill to the valley floor where it ended at a long, low barn nestled in the trees. Some distance from the barn was a tractor, silent and still as if abandoned at the end of the last row of newly-turned furrows. There was no sign of a driver. Tregalles glanced at his watch. Even tractor drivers must stop for elevenses these days he decided.

  ‘What do you want?’ a voice asked suspiciously.

  Tregalles turned to see a stocky, grey-haired man with a bucket in his hand, standing in the doorway of one of the buildings. The sergeant pulled out his warrant card and introduced himself.

  ‘You must be Mr Roper,’ he said. ‘Your wife said you might be back here.’

  ‘Did she, now? Didn’t look like you were looking for anybody to me,’ he said. ‘What do you want?’

  The man’s belligerent tone annoyed Tregalles, but he was determined not to get off on the wrong foot. ‘I was admiring the view,’ he said. ‘You’re a very lucky man; it’s like a little world of its own tucked away back here. It’s beautiful.’

  ‘For those as has time to stop and look at it, maybe,’ said Roper dourly. He set the bucket down and took out a packet of cigarettes. He lit one and blew a stream of smoke in Tregalles’s direction. ‘Like I said, what do you want?’

  ‘Gerry Fletcher. He rang you early on this morning.’

  Roper, facing into the sun, squinted against it. ‘So what if he did?’

  ‘Why did he ring you? And more to the point, why didn’t you let us know that he called you? You must have known we wanted to talk to him. Your wife said you heard it on the radio, and it’s been in the papers.’

  ‘None of my business,’ Roper said with a shrug. ‘He wanted money, and when I told him he wasn’t having any of mine, he hung up.’

  ‘Why would he think you’d give him money? How well do you know him?’

  Roper drew on his cigarette. ‘He’s done some work for me from time to time,’ he said.

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I mean you must know more about him than that. How long have you known him?’

  ‘Couple of months.’

  ‘So how did he come to work for you?’

  ‘Met him in the pub one night,’ Roper said. ‘We got to talking, and I happened to mention that some of my machines are getting on a bit and they keep breaking down, and he offered to come out and take a look at them. Said he was good at that sort of thing. Didn’t believe him at first, but turned out he knew what he was doing. Trouble is, you can’t rely on him. He was supposed to come up here on the weekend to do some painting in the house, but he didn’t come. Didn’t phone, either, so when he rang this morning and said he needed money, I told him I’ve got no money to spare, and even if I had I wouldn’t be giving it to someone who’s in trouble with the police. He said it was all a big mistake, but I told him, mistake or not, I didn’t want any part of it.’

  ‘Did he say where he was calling from?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he tell you anything that might help us find him?’

  Roper shook his head. ‘I’ve told you all I know,’ he said.

  ‘Is there anything you can tell me about his personal life?’ Tregalles asked desperately.

  Again, the farmer shook his head. ‘Never asked and he never said.’ He dropped the cigarette on the stones and ground it out beneath his heel, then picked up the bucket and walked straight toward Tregalles. If the sergeant hadn’t stepped aside to let the man pass, he felt sure that Roper would have walked right over him.

  Tregalles was surprised to find Paget there with Ormside when he returned to Charter Lane. Surprised and just a little bit apprehensive, because i
t was clear by the expression on both men’s faces that something was amiss, and he was afraid it might have something to do with him.

  ‘Len tells me you’ve been out to see the farmer Fletcher rang this morning,’ Paget said as Tregalles joined them. ‘What’s his relationship with Fletcher?’ The expression on Paget’s face was grave, but he didn’t sound angry or put out.

  ‘Don’t know if there is one to speak of,’ Tregalles told him. ‘It seems Fletcher has been doing some work for him, fixing up some old machinery, and he was trying to persuade Roper to advance him some money. But Roper turned him down and hung up on him.’

  ‘Fletcher didn’t say where he was?’

  ‘Roper says not. He’s a surly bugger, but I have no reason to doubt the man.’

  Paget gave a non-committal grunt. ‘Be that as it may,’ he said, ‘there’s been another development since you left. A fisherman found a body in the Severn down near Highley. Apparently it’s been in the water for some time. And from the description and the clothing, it could be Doyle, so it’s even more important now that we find Fletcher, because he’s the only lead we have to whatever is going on here.’

  ‘You think he killed Doyle?’ Tregalles asked.

  ‘If he didn’t he probably knows who did,’ said Paget, ‘and if that is the case, then whoever is behind all this won’t want him talking to the police, so the sooner we find him the better. Have we had anything back from Great Malvern?’

  Ormside shook his head. ‘I alerted them as soon as we found out that Fletcher was in their area, but I’ve heard nothing since.’

  ‘Keep checking with them anyway, and make sure they understand how important it is that we find this man.’

  He turned his attention to Tregalles. ‘I want you to attend the autopsy on this body they pulled from the river,’ he said. ‘Starkie wanted to delay it until Monday, but when I told him how important it was for us to find out if it is Mickey Doyle, he agreed to do it first thing tomorrow morning. Seven o’clock sharp, so make sure you get there on time, Tregalles. You know how he hates tardiness.’

  Tregalles was not a happy man as he drove home that evening. It had been some time since he’d been an observer at an autopsy, but the one thing he remembered vividly was the smell. Just the thought of having to stand there and watch someone cut up a body that had been in the water for a couple of weeks was more than enough to start his stomach churning. And he couldn’t help wondering if this, too, was some sort of punishment for allowing Fletcher to escape.

  Eleven o’clock. Bernie Green waited for the chimes to finish before winding the clock on the mantelpiece and following his wife upstairs to bed. He was halfway up the stairs when he heard a tapping sound coming from somewhere at the back of the house. He went back down the hall and paused beside the open kitchen door. There it was again, louder now, insistent.

  Someone was knocking on the back door. It had to be Hector Burgess, his next-door neighbour. He was the only one who came round to the back door, usually to borrow something, or to ask if Bernie had seen Wallace, his cat. Muttering under his breath, Bernie strode through the kitchen to the back door and flung it open.

  ‘Do you know what time it is, Hec–?’ he began, then changed it to: ‘Bloody hell!’ as Gerry Fletcher pushed his way inside and slammed the door behind him.

  ‘Got nowhere else to go,’ Gerry said breathlessly. ‘I need the key to the yard, Bernie. Got to get the bike off the road.’

  But Bernie was shaking his head. ‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘You’re not barging in here like that. I’m in enough trouble as it is because of you. I’m out on bail, for Christ’s sake! They could sling me back in gaol if they find you here. Oh, no. On your way, Gerry.’ He reached over to open the back door, but suddenly found himself slammed against the wall with Gerry’s forearm across his throat.

  ‘So what have you been had for, then?’ Gerry asked suspiciously. ‘They catch up with you for fencing stolen goods, did they?’

  ‘For trying to sell that camera I got from that van you brought in here,’ gasped Bernie hoarsely. He saw the narrowing of Gerry’s eyes, and knew he’d made a bad mistake.

  ‘So that’s how they got on to me,’ Fletcher snarled. ‘You bastard! I wondered, but I never thought it was you.’ He rammed his forearm tighter against his brother-in-law’s neck. ‘You shopped me, Bernie? What did they promise you for that?’

  ‘I didn’t mean to. Honest to God, I didn’t mean to, Gerry. They kept on and on at me. They were talking about murder, Gerry. Some bloke called Newman who’s disappeared. You know what they’re like, Gerry. Honest to God, I mean, what could I do?’

  ‘You could’ve kept your bloody mouth shut for a start,’ Gerry sneered as he lowered his arm. ‘And for your information, I didn’t have nothing to do with that. But you made a deal for yourself, didn’t you, Bernie? You’d like to see me in gaol, wouldn’t you? Well let me tell you something, Bernie, if I go down I’ll make sure you go down with me. I’ll swear that you were involved up to your neck. I’ll tell them all about the stuff that goes in and out of your yard, and I’ll tell them you and me have been partners for years. How would you like that, Bernie? Eh? Now give me the bloody keys. Like I said, I’ve got to get the bike off the road.’

  Bernie fished the keys out of his pocket and Fletcher snatched them from his hand. ‘Now don’t go locking the door on me while I’m gone,’ he warned, ‘because I’m going to be staying here for a while. And don’t try ringing the filth while I’m out, either, because like I said, if I go down, I’ll take you with me.’ He opened the door, then paused. ‘Oh, yeah, and make yourself useful while I put the bike away; put the kettle on, or better still, get me a beer and find me something to eat. I haven’t had a thing since lunchtime, and I’m bloody starving.’

  Sixteen

  Saturday, March 22

  Grace stood there in the dark, willing herself to stop shaking so she could close the bedroom door quietly. She took a deep breath and used both hands to draw it shut, then made her way down the stairs and into the kitchen. She closed the door and switched the light on, then stood there for a moment to catch her breath. Her heart was pounding; she could feel it thumping in her chest; hear the pulsing rush of blood inside her head with every beat. Her nightgown felt like a second skin clinging to a body soaked in sweat, one minute hot, the next ice cold.

  Grace wrapped her dressing gown around herself, then filled a glass with water and gulped it down. She refilled the glass, then sat down at the table and leaned her head back against the wall. She closed her eyes, waiting for the pounding in her chest to subside.

  It was no good. She couldn’t go on like this. There had to be another way, she told herself, because what she had been doing wasn’t working. Perhaps you should tell Neil, the voice of reason said persuasively. Perhaps . . .

  No! she told herself firmly. This was something she had to do herself, and she’d long ago decided that Neil was not to know. But how? Her mind began to drift . . . The glimmering of an idea began to form. Perhaps there was a way. If only she had the courage! Grace closed her eyes, concentrating hard . . .

  It was dark beneath the water, dark and cold and such a long way to the surface and the light. She was trying desperately not to panic, but her arms refused to move; her hands were numb, and her fingers wouldn’t work, and she couldn’t hold her breath much longer. She kicked out hard and felt a sudden stab of pain . . .

  Grace gasped for breath as she opened her eyes. Slumped over, head buried in her arms on the kitchen table, her neck was stiff and her shin was throbbing with pain. She lifted her head to look at the clock, blinking against the light as the nightmare faded.

  Ten minutes past six? Could that be the time?

  Grace bent to rub her leg. She must have banged it against the table leg when she’d kicked out in her dream, and it was tender to the touch.

  She flopped back in her chair. Thank God it was Saturday. Grace didn’t set the alarm on the weekends because that was the only
time she and Neil could sleep in. The only time Neil could sleep in, she corrected herself; she hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep for weeks, although she would never admit that to Neil.

  Still, she’d better get back to bed in case he woke up and wondered where she was.

  Grace was partway up the stairs when she remembered. The alarm was set! Set for six thirty! Neil had set it himself, saying he couldn’t afford to take the whole weekend off when there was so much to do. Tregalles would be attending the autopsy of the man they thought might be Doyle, and Sergeant Ormside would be in the office as well. ‘Sorry, Grace,’ he’d said, ‘but there really is a lot to do, and I feel I should be there.’

  She opened the bedroom door carefully, then slipped into bed. Neil didn’t so much as stir as she pulled the covers over herself and snuggled down beside him.

  Oh, to be able to sleep like that! she thought jealously as she lay there tense and rigid, waiting for the alarm to ring.

  ‘There you are, love,’ said Shirley Green as she slid a plateful of eggs, bacon, sausages and a large slice of fried bread in front of Gerry Fletcher. ‘You get that down you and things won’t look half so bad as they did last night. I don’t know what Bernie was thinking about when he said you couldn’t stay. Of course you can stay, can’t he, Bernie? It will all sort itself out given time. You’ll see.’

  ‘The police want to talk to him about a murder, for God’s sake!’ Bernie protested from the other side of the table. ‘That isn’t the sort of thing that gets sorted, Shirl, so the sooner he’s out of here the better for all of us. We could both go to gaol if he’s found here.’

  ‘That’s not what they said on the telly. They said they believed he could help them with their enquiries. I watched it three times, Bernie, and that’s what they said. I thought they could have used a better picture, though. Did you see it, Gerald?’