Breaking Point (7 page)

‘Not really. The lights were in my eyes. I saw the door open on the driver's side, but I couldn't really see who got in.'

‘Has anything like this happened before?'

‘No, never.' Mary curled a hand around the cat and pulled her closer. ‘I think someone must be ill or died for Mickey to rush off like that. Maybe his mother, although he never talked about his family – come to that he's never talked about Ireland as long as I've known him.'

‘So you didn't actually get a good look at his friends at all?'

Mary shook her head. ‘It was all such a rush, and it was dark and with the lights shining like they were, it was hard to see anything properly.'

‘What about the car? Can you tell me anything about it? Make, colour, number plate? Two doors, four doors, old, new – anything at all?'

‘It had four doors, but that's all I can tell you.' Mary turned suspicious eyes on Tregalles. ‘What's this all about, anyway?' she demanded. ‘Why are you asking all these questions? I thought you said you just wanted to talk to Mickey about a friend of his.'

‘I do,' Tregalles said soberly, ‘because a friend, or at least an acquaintance of his, left home without telling anyone, and I was hoping that Mickey Doyle could help me find him. But now, from what you've told me, I'm wondering if Mickey hasn't done the same.'

‘I don't think Mickey Doyle has gone to Ireland,' Tregalles said. ‘In fact I suspect he may not have gone anywhere willingly. Mrs Turnbull said she went over to Doyle's caravan straightaway, and found the door open, the bed unmade, drawers pulled out, and clothes on the floor. And when I took a look myself, it was just like Newman's place; there wasn't a scrap of paper to be found.

‘Mary said she tidied up a bit – and it
was
only a bit – but she says she didn't take anything out of there, apart from the cat, of course. She said there was no note, and she's heard nothing from Doyle since that morning.

‘She couldn't describe the men or the car because the headlights were pointed in her direction, so all she could see were outlines and shadowy figures, and no one else I spoke to in the caravan court remembers seeing or hearing anything unusual that Friday morning. Or if they did they're not saying. Some of them were out when I called, but I'll try to get to the rest tomorrow.

‘Mary said one of the men told her they'd come to take Mickey to the train, but I checked the local timetable and there's nothing going either way around that time in the morning. Oh, yes, just one more thing: Doyle's van was parked behind the trailer. It was unlocked and all his tools were inside.'

They were in Paget's office: Tregalles, Molly Forsythe and Geoff Kirkpatrick from SOCO.

‘I've sealed the caravan and the van,' the sergeant continued, ‘and Geoff will be going through both tomorrow. We've cleared it with Charlie Dobbs. I couldn't find a picture of Doyle, but I have a fairly good description, and I think we should get it out along with Newman's.'

‘Agreed,' said Paget. ‘And since it appears to be developing into something more than a Missing Persons case, I think it's time to bring DS Ormside in on this, so have him circulate Doyle's description. And just in case there is some truth to the story that Doyle has gone to Ireland, I would think these so-called friends of his would be more likely to drive him to Shrewsbury, where there are at least half a dozen trains a day to Holyhead and the ferry. So let's find out if Doyle
does
have friends or relatives over there. Anything else?'

‘That's it, boss,' the sergeant told him as he gathered his papers together and stood up. ‘I'll go down and talk to Ormside now.'

‘Right.' Paget turned to Molly as Tregalles left the room. ‘And what did you find out?' he began, but was interrupted by a low buzzing sound coming from her handbag. She raised an enquiring eyebrow in Paget's direction, and he nodded. Molly took out the phone and answered it. She began to move toward the door to take the call outside the office, then stopped.

‘Right away,' she said, and closed the phone. ‘It's a message from a Mrs Chandler, a woman I met in the village, today,' she told Paget. ‘She would like me to ring her as soon as possible. Do you mind, sir? It could be important.'

‘Go ahead,' he told her, turning his attention to Kirkpatrick. ‘And what did you find?' he asked as Molly left the office.

‘Not much,' the man said, ‘but it was hard to know exactly what to look for.' Kirkpatrick was a small, soft-spoken man, who had been on Charlie's team for a decade or more, and he was known to be painstakingly thorough. ‘At the cottage, I found what I presume to be Newman's prints everywhere in the room, and I found Emma Baker's prints pretty much where she said I'd find them, including on the do-it-yourself Ikea wardrobe, which she said she'd helped put together. I also found prints belonging to Foxworthy all over the worktable in front of the window, and one or two from Sylvia Tyler. I got there early in order to get everyone's prints for comparison,' he explained. ‘Foxworthy was the only one who objected, saying he didn't see why he should give them, because he'd never been inside Newman's room. But he finally let me take them.'

‘That's what he told us yesterday,' Paget said. ‘And so did Sylvia. Have you had a chance to speak to them, or were they still away at the college when you left?'

‘Fortunately, they both came home for lunch,' said Kirkpatrick, ‘so I spoke to them then. Foxworthy's a touchy sod, isn't he? Swore up and down that he'd never been in Newman's room until Emma Baker reminded him that he'd helped Newman carry the plywood up the stairs when Newman was setting up the table. He said he was never more than two or three steps inside the room and left as soon as he set the plywood top down. And that made sense, because the only other prints I found of his were a couple on the door jamb.'

‘And what did young Sylvia have to say for herself?'

Kirkpatrick chuckled. ‘I'm afraid I embarrassed her,' he said. ‘It took a bit of coaxing, but she finally admitted that she had a bit of a crush on Newman, and she'd slipped into his room a couple of times, as she put it, “to look round and sort of pretend that he was there with her”.'

‘Did you believe her?'

Kirkpatrick shrugged. ‘It sounded just soppy enough to be true,' he said. ‘I've got a fifteen-year-old at home who's a bit like that since she discovered boys. And my impression of Miss Tyler is that she's not all that mature.'

Paget nodded. That had been his impression as well.

‘There were a variety of prints I couldn't identify on some of the older furniture and on the door and window sill, but my guess is they belong to previous tenants. There were none where I would have expected them to be if whoever removed the papers and the laptop hadn't worn gloves. Something like driving gloves, I suspect, because I found one very small piece of thread caught on the rough edge of the plywood table, and I think when we take a closer look at it, we'll find it's the sort used for stitching gloves like that.'

Paget grimaced. ‘It's not much to go on, though, is it?' he said.

‘There was one other thing,' Kirkpatrick said. ‘I found similar threads on the back door beside the lock. The only other prints on the door belonged to Sylvia Tyler, and when I checked her gloves, they were nowhere near the same.'

Molly appeared in the doorway. ‘I called Mrs Chandler back,' she told Paget, ‘and it turns out that she is the doctor's wife in Lyddingham. Apparently she comes in to Whitcott to meet her friend for coffee, which is why I found her there this morning. Anyway, when she told her husband that I had been asking if anyone had seen any activity around Wisteria Cottage last week, he said he remembered driving past there Friday morning and seeing two men get out of a car and go through the gate. I asked Mrs Chandler if he recognized them or could describe them, but she says they had their backs to him, and he only glanced at them as he drove by.'

‘What time was that?' asked Paget.

‘He thinks it would be about half past nine.'

‘And classes start at eight, so everyone is out of the house on weekdays by that time,' said Paget. ‘It fits. Does he remember anything about the car?'

‘He says not, sir, but I've made arrangements to meet him tomorrow to see if I can jog his memory. I plan on taking the car book with me to see if that will help.'

‘Good! Anything else?'

‘I'm afraid not, sir. No one I spoke to today had anything bad to say about the students in Wisteria Cottage, or the students at the college in general. There are a lot of them boarding in the area, and the villagers like that because they do well out of them. And with the Red Lion being the only pub in the village, just about everyone knows Emma Baker. Some of them said they knew Mark Newman because he'd done some work for them, but no one seemed to know anything
about
him.'

Paget nodded. ‘What time are you seeing this doctor, tomorrow?'

‘Two o'clock. He's busy in the morning.'

‘Right, in that case, perhaps it would be a good idea to go early and have lunch at the Red Lion and see what information you can pick up about Doyle and Newman. And if that doesn't bring any results, perhaps you'd better go back later and try the evening crowd. Any problem with that, Constable?'

‘Sounds good to me, sir,' said Molly, grinning. ‘Best assignment I've had for months.'

‘Q
uite a number of my patients come from Whitcott Lacey,' Dr Chandler said in answer to Molly's question. ‘I know the place well, and I'm quite familiar with Wisteria Cottage. In fact the owner is a friend of mine.'

The doctor worked from home, a rambling, three-storey redbrick house set well back from the road. A large white sign directed patients to the surgery door around the side of the house, but Joyce Chandler had told Molly to come to the front door, and it was she who answered it when Molly rang the bell.

‘Nice to see you again, Molly,' she said as she led the way down a wide hallway. ‘Gordon's in his study. Tea will be ready in a few minutes; I'll bring it in.'

Now, seated in a comfortable chair, with tea and biscuits close to hand, Molly faced the doctor across his desk. It was hard to determine his age. His face was deeply lined, and his hair was almost white, but he had kindly eyes, and there was a vitality about him that made him seem younger than he probably was. Early sixties, Molly guessed.

‘Your wife said on the phone that you were on your way back here when you passed the cottage last Friday morning, Doctor. Can you tell me what time that was? As close as possible.'

Chandler pursed his lips and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. ‘On my way back to the
hospital
,' he corrected gently. ‘I checked my appointments diary last night, and as near as I can tell, it would be about nine thirty, so I telephoned the hospital and asked them to check their log, and they said I signed in at ten minutes to ten, which would be about right.'

‘Tell me what you saw as you passed the cottage.'

Chandler went on to repeat what his wife had said on the phone the day before, concluding with: ‘It was just a passing glance, you understand. It meant nothing at the time. It wasn't until Joyce told me that you were asking questions about Wisteria Cottage that I remembered it at all.'

‘You say you only saw the back of the men. Can you tell me what they were wearing?'

Chandler tilted back in his chair and looked at the ceiling. ‘One of them, the bigger one of the two, was wearing a heavy jacket, black or could have been navy, but that's all I could see. The rest of him was hidden by the car.'

‘Was his head covered or bare?'

The doctor frowned in concentration. ‘Couldn't see much because of his collar,' he said, ‘but he didn't have anything on his head. As I said, he had his back to me.'

‘Long or short hair?' Molly persisted. ‘Dark or fair?'

Chandler shook his head. ‘I couldn't tell whether it was long or short, because the collar of his jacket hid most of the back of his head. I
think
his hair was fair, but it could have been grey. As I said, I only caught a glimpse.'

‘You say he was bigger than the other man. In what sense, Doctor? Taller? Heavier?'

The doctor thought for a moment. ‘Certainly taller, and quite a bit heavier, I'd say.'

‘And the other man; what can you tell me about him?'

‘Again, not much, I'm afraid. He wore a lighter-coloured jacket, a sort of faded blue, and the hood hid his head completely. And, like the other chap, his lower half was hidden by the car.'

‘What can you tell me about the car?'

Chandler grimaced and spread his hands in a gesture of apology. ‘I'm afraid I can't be of much help to you there, either,' he said. ‘My
impression
is that it was an older car; a bit larger than most you see on the roads today. Light-coloured, possibly grey. I don't think it was white.' He closed his eyes, brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to picture the scene.

‘I think they had only just arrived, because I remember seeing the second man – the smaller one of the two – having to push his way along between the side of the car and the hedge. But this other car was coming toward me, so my attention was on it more than the one at the side of the –'

He stopped abruptly. ‘I'd forgotten about that until now,' he said slowly. ‘Funny how that happens, isn't it? I suppose that was why I paid so little attention to the two men. The road is quite narrow there, and with the car parked at the side of the road, there wasn't much room to pass. I remember Fred was looking anxious about his new car as he went by; not that there was any real danger of a collision, but then Fred is the nervous type.'