“As soon as we showed interest in her bank account,” DS Grant put in, taking over the conversation, “as soon as we asked to be able to see Mrs Smith’s bank records, she suddenly starts to use the account again. Seems very odd to us. What do you think?”
“She had money,” Karen said abruptly. “She took it when she left.”
“Did she? Were you in the house when she left?”
“No, I was on holiday.”
“So how do you know she took money with her? It must have been a large amount to keep her going this long without having to recourse to her bank account.”
“She took money from my father’s safe,” Karen said a little unwillingly. She realised as soon as she had said it that Roger would be furious that she had told them about the money. “I don’t know how much, Dad didn’t tell me, but he did say she had robbed the safe.”
“And does your father keep large sums of money in his safe at home?” asked Grant with interest.
“I don’t know, you’d better ask him,” snapped Karen.
Grant smiled. “Oh, don’t worry, Miss Smith, we will.”
“In the meantime, Miss Smith,” Crozier said, “You will be charged with the theft of the card and obtaining goods by deception. You will be bailed to attend in court on a suitable day.”
The interview was terminated and Karen was taken away for the paperwork to be done; her solicitor, with a nod to the two policemen, followed her out of the room.
When Crozier and Grant were left alone, Crozier looked at his sergeant and said, “Well, what do you think’s going on here, then?”
“I think something could well have happened to Mrs Smith, and now that we are looking for her, Karen Smith tried to make it look as if her stepmother was spending money in London…as if she had moved there.”
“What about the money she’s supposed to have taken from Roger’s safe?”
Grant shrugged. “Don’t know, sir. She could have done that I suppose. It would be interesting to see what else is in that safe.”
“It would indeed, Grant, “ Crozier agreed. “And now we have substantial grounds for thinking something has happened to Mrs Smith we should have no trouble in getting a warrant to have a look. Get over to the magistrates’ court first thing in the morning and get search warrants for 12 Cardiff Road and the antique shop.”
“And Roger Smith, sir?”
“We’ll have him in again when we see what we’ve found. Have we got the results of that DNA test yet?”
“They said tomorrow, sir,” replied Grant.
“Sounds as if tomorrow is going to be rather a busy day,” Crozier said cheerfully.
He was proved right. The two search warrants were executed at both places simultaneously. Roger was at the shop when they arrived there, and Crozier informed him that his house was being searched at that very moment.
“My house, as well” blustered Roger. “How the hell did you get in? I hope you have done any damage, breaking in.”
“No, sir, there was no need to break in. Your daughter was in the house when we arrived. She let us in.”
“But I don’t understand,” wailed Roger. “I don’t understand what it is you are looking for.”
“Anything that might help us determine the whereabouts of Mrs Pamela Smith, sir,” replied Crozier smoothly. “We shall be taking your computer, and we need the combination to your safe.”
“My safe!” Roger was horrified. He had a customer interested in Charleigh’s pearls, but the deal had not been clinched yet and they were still nestling in their black velvet, in his safe.
“Perhaps you’d like to return home with us, sir,” Grant suggested, “so that you can open the safe for us.”
“But what about here?” demanded Roger looking round helplessly as several policemen in uniform searched the shop.
“You have an inventory of everything in the shop I’m sure, sir,” Grant said. “Have you a computer in the shop as well as at home?”
“No,” growled Roger watching two strapping policemen pulling a glass fronted bookcase away from the wall. “Look, inspector,” he rounded on Crozier, “what the hell are you looking for? I haven’t got Pam hidden here in the shop, you know. Tell those great oafs to be careful with my stock. Some of it’s valuable. I shall hold you personally responsible for any damage they do on this…this wild goose chase!”
“So, shall we go back to the house now, sir?” suggested Crozier as if he hadn’t heard a word Roger had said to him, “and see about the safe? If not my men will remove it. It’s up to you.”
In despair Roger opted to go with them. He had little choice. There was nothing much for the police to find at the shop. All the really valuable pieces supplied by Gord were safely stashed in the lock-up. What they might find at home was a different matter.
They reached 12 Cardiff Road and found a distraught Karen standing in the hall watching the policemen carrying her father’s computer out to a waiting van.
“Dad!” she cried when she saw him get out of the police car, “Dad, they’re taking stuff away. I couldn’t stop them and they wouldn’t let me phone you. Dad, what’s going on?”
Even as she spoke she saw an officer coming downstairs carrying the distinctive Grosvenor’s bag which contained the hat and bag she had bought the previous Saturday. She had left them in her bedroom here. She stared at the bag in dismay, knowing it also contained her copy of the card sales receipt. She would have no option but to plead guilty now.
Roger pushed his way in past the policeman and stood in the hall looking round angrily. Inspector Crozier and Sergeant Grant had followed him in and as they did so a voice from upstairs called out, “Sir, I think you’d better come and look at this.”
Crozier went upstairs to where a constable was kneeling on the landing. “This looks like blood, sir. Here on the carpet.”
Roger darted up the stairs and said angrily, “I told you, I fell and hit my head. I told you that inspector, weeks ago when you first came sniffing round. I hit my head and bled on the carpet.”
“So you did, sir,” the inspector agreed. He, apparently having a better memory than Roger, remembered the explanation had originally been a nose-bleed, but all he said now was, “I remember you had a nasty bruise on your face, but not a cut as I recall. Take that piece of carpet up, Baron,” he instructed the constable. He turned back to the fuming Roger. “We’ll get it checked for DNA, just to be sure that it is your blood, sir.”
“Whose else would it be?” blustered Roger, watching impotently as Baron peeled the strip of carpet away from the floor.
“That’s what we shall be trying to ascertain, sir,” Crozier told him calmly. “Now, what about the safe?”
They went into the office and Roger saw that not only had his computer disappeared, but his filing cabinet was gone from its place by the desk and all the desk drawers were open and empty. The door to the cupboard which housed the safe was standing wide and its shelves were now empty. Roger thought of all the things that were stored in the safe besides the pearl choker. The hard copies of his secret files, the back-up disks of his private accounts…all would be discovered and all because of bloody Pam. It was all her fault that this was happening to him. If she hadn’t done her bloody stupid disappearing act, none of this would have happened. The police would have had no interest in him at all. All his private life, his business deals, would have remained private. Rage welled up inside him and erupted like a volcano. Everything had gone wrong in his life since Pam had walked out and it was all her fault. If she had appeared in the room at that moment he would have throttled her with his bare hands. If she were here now he would force her back against the wall and crash her head against it over and over and over until she collapsed like a rag doll in his arms. Hatred flooded through him and he spun round, face twisted, fists clenched, to spew it out onto the nearest person. Crozier.
“Get out!” he bellowed, shaking with fury. “Get out of my house before I throw you out. Get out, get out!” He
lunged at the inspector as if trying to propel him out of the room, and when Crozier put up an arm to fend him off, Roger grabbed hold of him and threw him sideways.
Constable Baron, still working on the landing, heard the shouting and rushed to the inspector’s aid, calling for more assistance from downstairs as he did so. It took three of them, finally, to subdue the frenzied Roger, to restrain him enough to handcuff him and take him out to the car.
“Take him to the station and leave him in the cells to cool down,” Crozier instructed Grant. “I’ll be back to talk to him when I’ve finished here. And send someone up to remove this safe. It is bolted to the floor somehow.”
Back inside the house Crozier spoke to Karen, who had watched in horror as her father was manhandled out of the house and into the police car. “Your father is under arrest, Miss Smith, for assaulting a police officer, obstructing the police and will probably be charged with several other offences as well. May I suggest that you ring Mr Keller and ask him to come to the police station. No doubt Mr Smith will want his solicitor there while we question him.” He turned to Constable Baron who had accompanied him back into the house. “Bring that piece of carpet, Baron, cut it if necessary.”
“You can’t just cut up my father’s landing carpet,” objected Karen.
“I have a warrant, Miss Smith,” Crozier told her coldly. “I can seize anything that I think will help me in my enquiry. We have also searched his shop this morning. It would be as well if you went over there and made sure that it is locked up again when we have finished. In the meantime I suggest you wait in the kitchen so that you can secure this house afterwards, as well.” He left Karen standing open-mouthed in the hall and strode back upstairs. He went to the office and looked round him. What on earth had triggered Roger to go berserk like that? Up until that time, Crozier thought, he was angry at the searches, but resigned somehow. Then suddenly he had snapped. Crozier had seldom seen such vicious hatred on another man’s face. Roger Smith had flipped from being a rather mean but ineffectual little man into a violent madman it had taken three of them to restrain. Had he behaved like that to his poor, timid wife? Had he terrorised her over the years until one night he had snapped, like today, and killed her?
Well, thought Crozier as he waited for the man to come and remove the safe, we’ve certainly enough to hold him now while we step up our enquiries into what’s happened to Pamela Smith.
Karen had taken Crozier’s advice to wait in the kitchen until they had finished their search. She felt she had no option but to wait. She had phoned Jonathan Keller, with whom she had an appointment herself later in the week, and told him about her father’s arrest.
“Please can you go to the police station as soon as possible,” she asked, almost in tears. “I think he hit a policeman.”
When at last the police left, Karen walked round the house looking at the mess that was left. One glance into her father’s bedroom showed her it was in its usual state, but the drawers that had held Pam’s clothes were now empty. She moved on to her own room. Things weren’t too bad in there. Her cupboards and drawers had been searched but nothing seemed to be missing except the Grosvenor’s bag. Then her heart missed a beat. Pam’s handbag, left behind when she’d taken the car, was also missing. Why on earth had they taken that? Karen wondered. She tried to remember what had been in it. Was there anything to identify it as Pam’s? Just the purse, but as far as she could recall that had had no ID in it. No, the bag could just as easily be one of hers. She tried to calm herself and went into the office, now virtually empty. The cupboard door stood open; the safe had gone. Karen remembered the files her father had backed up and stored in the safe. His secret files.
Well, whatever was in them, they’re in the police’s hands now, she thought resignedly, as she pushed the cupboard door closed. I suppose I’d better go over to the shop.
When she got there, though the closed sign was displayed, the door was ajar. Karen pushed it open and went in. A police constable was sitting on a chair, writing something in a note book. He looked up when she came in and asked, “Are you Miss Karen Smith?”
Karen said that she was and he grinned. “Good,” he said. “Inspector Crozier said you’d be over to lock up. We’ve just finished here.” He got to his feet and crossed to the door. “I’ll leave you to it then,” he said and disappeared.
Karen closed the door behind him and went into the office. The desk there had also been emptied and the two filing cabinets which usually flanked it had gone. Karen was just pushing the empty desk drawers back into place when she heard someone come into the shop. She hurried out to turn them away, to say that shop was shut for the day.
“Can’t you see the closed sign?” she began, but the man to whom she spoke closed the door firmly behind him and flicked the catch.
“I suppose you’re the daughter,” he said without preamble.
There was something about him which sent a chill through Karen, and it was not just that he had locked the door, it was something threatening about his whole being.
“I’m Karen Smith,” she managed to reply. “What do you want?”
“A message for your father. Tell him, one word out of place, one name out of line and he’ll regret it. Remind him it won’t just be him who’ll be in trouble. Remind him that I know where you live as well.” The words were softly spoken, the accent refined, but the menace in them was unmistakable. The man, who was wearing a green Barbour jacket, crossed over to her, and Karen, as mesmerised as a rabbit in the headlights of a car, froze. He took her chin in his hand and turned her face to the light, saying as he did so. “You’ve a pretty face…for now. Let’s hope it stays that way. Tell your father what I said.” He dropped his hand and without another word, turned and left the shop, leaving the door ajar behind him. For a moment Karen remained frozen where she stood, then with a sudden kick of adrenaline she was across to the door, slamming it closed and locking it. Then she walked back into the office and slumped into a chair and buried her head in her hands.
“Oh Dad,” she moaned. “What are you mixed up in?”
Chapter 22
Sylvia first discovered that the police were actively seeking Pam Smith when she read a short paragraph in the Daily Telegraph.
Missing Wife
Police are searching for Pamela Smith (43) wife to antiques dealer, Roger Smith of Bristol who disappeared in February and has not been seen since. Mrs Smith left home after an argument with her husband and no one has heard from her since that day. Police are not yet saying that they suspect foul play, they are simply calling for Mrs Smith to come forward, so that they can ascertain that she is alive and well.
There was a somewhat grainy photograph of Pam that must have been taken some years earlier.
If I hadn’t known it was Pam, I’d never have recognised her, Sylvia thought as she studied the picture. I suppose it does look a bit like how she looked when she came to me.
It certainly bore little resemblance to the chic Arabella Agnew that Pam had become, and Sylvia staring at the picture, doubted if anyone would recognise Arabella as she was now. She wondered if Arabella herself had seen it; if she knew that the police were looking for her. Then she remembered that Arabella was in Paris with André. Sylvia pulled a face at the thought. She hadn’t warmed to André. He had never been her escort, and she had been disappointed when he had turned up with Rory for that first evening with Arab. He seemed to have suited Arabella well enough, but Sylvia still wished it had been Jasper, as she had planned. Still that couldn’t be helped. It was Arabella’s more recent time spent with André that worried her. She didn’t trust André, he was too smooth, too….well she didn’t know really, charming? No, oily…yes that was the word, oily and slippery.
I should have known that Pam would lose her head to the first man who paid her any real attention, Sylvia thought ruefully. Someone who took the trouble to bring her to life. It’s my fault for introducing her to someone like that without thinking about how she would
react. Sylvia gave a sigh. I suppose a trip to Paris with him won’t hurt, just as long as he doesn’t find out just how much she is really worth.
Sylvia cut the short article out of the paper. They would have to keep an eye on events there, she thought. Arabella might have to go to the police and tell them that she as indeed alive and well. After all the police wouldn’t reveal her whereabouts to Roger, they would simply stop wasting their time looking for her. She’d discuss it with her when they were together in London next weekend.
Arabella had promised to arrange an entertaining weekend for them both when she got home from Paris.
“And this time, Sylvia, it’s my treat, OK? A thank you present. André told me there is a new guy at the agency, Marcus. He sounds delicious.” Arabella rolled her tongue round the word delicious in an almost lascivious way that Pam could never have done.
A Dish Served Cold Page 21
