A Killing Resurrected (26 page)

‘Good,' said Paget as he started in on the cucumber. ‘So that's settled. And don't worry about the alarm clock. I set it when I went upstairs to wash and change.'

‘Your wife has a strong heart,' the specialist had said, ‘but the heart needs oxygen, and not enough is getting into the lungs through the narrowed airways. That means not enough oxygen is getting into the bloodstream to keep the heart going.'

‘Can't you increase the amount? Give her more?'

The specialist had shaken his head. ‘We can supply the oxygen, but the lungs have to do their part, and I'm afraid your wife's lungs are so far gone that, quite frankly, I don't know what's keeping her heart going. I'm sorry, Mr Alcott, but there is nothing more we can do for her.'

The girls had gone, and Alcott was thankful for that. Celeste, realizing that her mother was fading fast, had decided to stay overnight rather than return to Bristol. She'd taken up Valerie's somewhat hesitant offer of a bed for the night after making it quite clear that she wouldn't even consider staying under the same roof as her father.

Now, sitting there in the half-dark, listening to Marion struggle for each and every breath, he cradled his head in his hands and wept.

N
ot only had they made good time, considering they had made their way across country on secondary roads, but they had passed through countryside and any number of picturesque towns and villages they might otherwise never have seen. Travelling east, facing the sun, had been hard on the eyes for the first few miles, but from then on it had been an enjoyable journey.

Even the streets of Cambridge were relatively quiet, but as Paget pointed out, it was still early; it was a Saturday, and the colleges were more or less shut down for the summer.

Guided by Grace reading the map of the city she'd taken off the net the night before, Paget made his way to the police station on Parkside. ‘Just going to let them know I'm here on their patch,' he told her, ‘and thank them for their help yesterday.'

He emerged some twenty-five minutes later to find Grace sitting in the car with the doors open to let the breeze through. ‘Sorry to take so long,' he apologized, ‘but they were giving me a rundown on Sam Bergman and his business, and as far as they're concerned, he's a successful businessman with a clean record.' He handed Grace a sheet of paper. ‘That's a copy of Bergman's listing in the
Yellow Pages
.'

‘Impressive,' Grace said as she scanned the page. ‘“Bespoke jewellery . . . special commissions . . . gold, silver . . . handmade wedding and engagement rings to your design . . . diamond setting . . .” Sounds as if Samuel Bergman is doing very well. That insurance settlement must have helped.'

‘I imagine it did.' Paget went around and got in the car. ‘In fact he must be doing
very
well, because he moved into a big new shopping centre called the Grand Arcade at the beginning of this year. I rang Bergman while I was in there to tell him we'd be visiting him in a few minutes.'

‘How did he sound?'

‘If you mean, did he sound worried, I'd say no. He sounded much the same as he did yesterday, when I set up this meeting, when he told me he'd be pleased to help in any way he could if it would lead to the capture of the men who killed his wife.'

‘Which is probably what I would have said under the circumstances if I'd been complicit in the killing of my wife or husband . . . or lover,' she added with a smile.

‘My, we are being cynical, today, aren't we?' he said as he handed Grace a second piece of paper. ‘Directions on how to get to the Grand Arcade from here,' he said. ‘I'm told it's impossible to miss, and it's not very far from here.'

The Grand Arcade was hard to miss, and judging by the number of cars in the multi-storey car park, and the steady stream of people entering the shopping centre itself, there had to be a fair bit of money about in Cambridge, thought Paget as they made their way inside. Sunlight poured through the domed glass ceiling, giving a light and airy feeling to the concourse as they followed the directions Paget had been given in Parkside.

‘There it is,' said Grace, pointing. ‘Over there on the corner.'

The name,
Samuel Bergman – Jeweller, Gold and Silversmith,
was written in gold on a black background on the window.

They entered the shop, where Paget identified himself to a slim, dark-haired young woman behind the long display counter. ‘Ah, yes,' she said, ‘Mr Bergman is expecting you, and he will be here in a moment, Chief Inspector.' Even as she was speaking, her hand slid beneath the edge of the counter, and Paget noted the brief tightening of the tendons of her wrist as she pressed a hidden button. He glanced around; there were at least three cameras in the shop, and possibly other safeguards as well, so it seemed that Samuel Bergman had learned something about security since the Broadminster robbery and the killing of his wife.

A door at the far end of the shop opened and a short, heavy-set, balding man advanced towards them, hand extended. ‘Chief Inspector Paget,' he said effusively as they shook hands. ‘And . . .?' He looked enquiringly at Grace, then back to Paget.

‘Ms Lovett is a crime scene investigator,' Paget explained as they both produced their cards for Bergman's inspection. ‘She is working with me on the investigation.'

‘I see,' said Bergman, but he looked faintly puzzled, and his tone belied his words. ‘You had no trouble finding us, then?' he said.

‘None at all,' Paget assured him. ‘And I must say I'm impressed with the Grand Arcade. I gather it hasn't been open long.'

‘Just last year,' Bergman told him. ‘In fact we have been here less than six months ourselves.'

‘And business . . .?' Paget enquired. ‘Has it been affected by the recession?'

‘Not as much as you might think,' Bergman said, sounding almost smug. ‘People are becoming more conservative in their choice of engagement and wedding rings and jewellery in general, but we also trade in gold and silver; we have done for some years now, and that is where the interest lies today. In fact, I am happy to say, compared to some of my competitors, we are doing very well. But that is not why you're here, is it, Chief Inspector? Please, come this way.'

Bergman led them to the back of the shop, where he ushered them into a small, tastefully furnished room. ‘Our viewing and selection room,' he said proudly, directing them to soft leather seats facing an oval, glass-topped, mahogany desk. ‘Some of our clients prefer to make their selections in private,' he explained. ‘With our assistance, of course,' he added when he saw Paget's eyes flick to the two CCTV cameras monitoring the room.

Bergman moved to the other side of the desk to take his own seat. ‘I must apologize for insisting that we meet here, Chief Inspector,' he said, ‘but as I explained on the phone yesterday, we are short-handed in our workshop, so my wife and I will be working here throughout the weekend to meet a deadline on a special order. Otherwise, we would have been happy to have you come to our home.'

‘This is perfectly fine,' Paget assured him, ‘and I'll try not to keep you too long. Is your wife here?'

‘She should be here at any moment now,' Bergman told him. ‘She is just finishing the repair of a rather fine necklace.'

‘Really?' Paget said. ‘I didn't realize that Mrs Bergman was involved in that side of the business. According to the notes we have on file, Loretta Thompson was your bookkeeper and part-time assistant in the shop.'

‘And that was true at the time,' Bergman said, ‘but Loretta was always interested in our work, and Emily began teaching her some of the basics about a year before she died, so Loretta was able to help me afterwards. Later, after moving to Cambridge, Loretta took an art foundation course, then went on to get a degree in jewellery and silversmithing. She has a natural talent for it, and she's been invaluable to me. Ah!' he exclaimed as a door opened and a woman wearing a white smock entered the room. ‘Here she is now. Loretta, this is Detective Chief Inspector Paget, and Ms Lovett, who is a . . .' He made an apologetic gesture with his hands. ‘I'm sorry, Ms Lovett,' he said, ‘but your title is . . .?'

‘Crime Scene Investigator,' Grace told him.

‘CSI?' the woman said with a smile. ‘Is that the same as we see on television?'

‘I wish,' Grace said with feeling. ‘We do much the same job, but the comparison ends there, I'm afraid, especially when it comes to the equipment and the amount of space they have to work in.'

‘Sam said you wanted to talk to both of us about what happened when Emily was killed,' she said, addressing Paget as she sat down, ‘but I don't know what I can tell you, because I wasn't there that day – at least until much later, when the police called me in.'

Loretta Bergman was tall, taller than her husband by several inches. Slim, fine-boned; her shoulder-length fair hair framed a rather plain face, except for the eyes. Calm, restful, yet seductive eyes, thought Grace, and wondered if that was the way Neil would see them as Loretta Bergman looked at him.

‘I realize that, Mrs Bergman,' said Paget, ‘but I thought it would save time on both sides if we could talk to the two of you together. As I told Mr Bergman on the phone, evidence has come to our attention in the form of a letter of sorts from someone who claims he was the driver for the gang who broke into your shop thirteen years ago. Unfortunately, he did not give us any other names, so we have been talking to everyone who might have been associated with him back then, and with the people who were also robbed by the same gang.

‘Their original statements are on file, along with your own, of course, and while I know this may be difficult for you, I would like to talk to you about the events of that day, and anything that might have occurred to you since then.'

Sam Bergman, sitting back in his chair, hands clasped over his stomach, nodded. ‘I've thought of little else since you called me yesterday,' he said soberly. ‘And you're right, it is hard, but if there's any chance, and I mean
any
chance at all of finding and catching the bastards who killed Emily, I'll help you in any way I can. So, where do you want to start?'

‘From the time you entered the shop that Saturday morning,' Paget told him. ‘The report I have says you entered by the front door at approximately eight thirty. Was that your usual practise?'

‘Yes, it was.'

‘Never by the back door?'

‘No.'

‘Did you, for any reason, open the back door between the time you arrived and when you left again to go down to the cafe on the corner to meet your friends?'

‘No. Why would I?' Bergman asked.

‘I don't know. Perhaps you heard something going on out there and went to look; perhaps you took some rubbish out to the bin . . .?'

Bergman shook his head. ‘Nothing like that,' he said firmly. ‘We just got on with the cleaning and getting the shop ready for business. I went over and over this with the inspector at the time. We did nothing different that morning.'

‘There seems to have been some question about whether or not you locked the back door when you left. Did you lock it behind you?'

Annoyance flickered in Bergman's eyes as he said, ‘No, as I told them at the time,
I
didn't lock the door, but Emily always shot the bolt on the door when I left. And I never left until I heard her do it. The insurance people hammered at that every chance they got, but I know that door was bolted from the inside.'

‘And I'm not disputing that,' Paget told him, ‘but as you know, there was no indication that the door had been forced, so it must have been your wife who opened the door.'

Bergman nodded agreement. ‘I'm sure it was,' he said. ‘She probably thought it was me or possibly George.'

‘You mean she would open the door if
anyone
knocked?'

Bergman shook his head impatiently. ‘Emily wouldn't open the door to just anyone, although, with the benefit of hindsight, I can see how careless we were. But you have to remember, it was a peaceful town; there had never been so much as a hint of trouble, so I suppose you could say we'd become lax. Emily knew that I always gave three sets of three knocks.' Bergman demonstrated by rapping three times in quick succession on the desk, followed by a pause, doing it again, pause, then a third time. ‘Like Morse code,' he explained. ‘“S” for Sam three times. The only other person who used it was George Taylor from next door.'

Paget turned to Loretta. ‘Did you know about that signal at the back door?' he asked.

‘Yes, I did,' she said. ‘I never had a reason to use it, but I knew about it.'

Paget turned back to Sam. ‘If George Taylor knew about it, it seems likely to me that there could have been others who knew it as well,' he said.

Sam bristled. ‘Like who?' he demanded. ‘I never told anyone else, and I'm sure Emily didn't.'

‘And I certainly didn't,' Loretta said.

‘What about George Taylor's two boys?' asked Paget. ‘They probably knew.'

‘I suppose they might,' Sam said, ‘but I think you're clutching at straws if you're suggesting that they were involved. They were good lads. Never had any trouble with them.'

‘I'm not suggesting anything,' Paget replied, ‘except, from what you've told me, it's quite possible that others may have known as well. Tell me, Mr Bergman, did you know a boy by the name of Barry Grant?'

Sam thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Don't think so,' he said. ‘Why?'

‘Yes, you did, Sam,' Loretta said. ‘Remember? He used to hang around with young David Taylor. The one I warned Tony to stay away from?'

‘Grant?' he said with a sharp glance at his wife. ‘Was that his name?' He shrugged an apology. ‘Sorry, my dear, but I'd forgotten his name.'