Night Fall (10 page)

Michael had set the bag of groceries on the kitchen table and turned to Molly. ‘Dad's really, really dead?' he asked solemnly.

Even now, Molly felt a lump in her throat as she pictured again those innocent brown eyes fixed so intently on her own. ‘I'm afraid so, Michael. I'm so sorry.'

The boy had glanced at his mother rocking back and forth, head half buried in her daughter's hair, then turned back to Molly. ‘Can I see him?' he asked.

‘I'm afraid that's not possible, Michael,' she'd said. ‘Sorry.'

‘But Mum will have to see him, won't she? I mean to make sure it really is Dad, like they do on
Law and Order
?' He was a child, and yet Molly couldn't help feeling that there was someone older behind those dark, enquiring eyes. She'd said yes, that would have to be done, and asked if there was anyone who could stay with him and his sister when that happened.

‘Aunt Sadie,' he said promptly. ‘But she just comes in at night when Mum and Dad go out. We don't need anyone here in the daytime now I'm ten.'

Aunt Sadie, Joan explained through her tears, wasn't a relative; she was a friend and neighbour who lived three doors down. ‘She's a good soul, but I don't want to bother her,' she said. ‘Really, we'll be all right on our own.'

‘I'm not so sure you will be,' Molly told her, ‘and I don't feel I can leave you and the children here like this. This has been a terrible shock; someone should be with you, so it's either someone like Aunt Sadie or I shall have to ask social services to send someone round.'

Joan gave in, and Sadie Greenhill had come round straight away. She was an older woman, calm and motherly. ‘I've buried two husbands myself,' she confided quietly when Molly let her in, ‘so I know what it's like. I live on my own so it's no trouble to stay here for as long as Joan and the children need me.'

When she reached Charter Lane, Molly stopped in the cafeteria for a cup of coffee to go with the two muffins in her bag. You weren't supposed to bring your own food into the cafeteria, but Molly preferred to chance it after she saw what was left on the lunch menu.

‘Please tell me you have something we can work with,' Ormside said when Molly appeared, ‘because this puts a whole new face on the investigation into the Travis killing as well. What have you got?'

‘Not much, I'm afraid,' Molly said as she sat down at the desk with him and opened her notebook. ‘As far as his wife is concerned, Dennis Moreland wasn't worried or apprehensive about anything; their finances are in order, and he went off to work that morning as usual, and she has no idea why or how he would end up in Clapperton quarry. He has no enemies as far as she knows, and he hasn't fought or argued with anyone recently. She knew where the camera shop was, but the name Billy Travis meant nothing to her, and she was sure she'd never heard her husband mention it.'

‘Didn't they see the piece in the local paper about Travis?'

‘She said she recalled seeing something about a local man being killed, but the name meant nothing to her.'

‘Did Moreland belong to anything, any organization that might have brought him into contact with Billy Travis?'

‘Not that I could find,' Molly told him. ‘Dennis Moreland was an ardent golfer for years, but Billy Travis wasn't; Billy was in the choir at All Saints, but, according to his wife, Dennis Moreland was never in a choir. They attend a different church, though I gather he didn't go as much as Mrs Moreland and the children. The only other activity Dennis was involved with was the Minster Players, the repertory theatre on Vicarage Walk. He was a volunteer there, working backstage.'

‘Friends, relatives?' Ormside queried.

‘Parents live in Sheffield, and he has one brother, a teacher, who lives in Cheadle. They have a number of friends, but only three couples they see on a regular basis. It doesn't look too promising, but if Dennis Moreland was in any sort of trouble he might have confided in one of those, so I have them on my list.'

Ormside grunted. ‘Promising or not, if it's all we've got, then let's get on and do it. We've spoken to a number of people in Osmond Street, but we didn't get them all, so we'll keep going back until we do. There isn't anyone living within a mile of the quarry, so we're not going to get anything at that end, which means we'll have to concentrate on the street. Does Mrs Moreland work?'

‘Apart from scrubbing, cleaning, washing, ironing, shopping, cooking, and looking after the house and the children, you mean, Sergeant?'

‘Don't be cheeky,' Ormside admonished sharply, but a hint of a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘You know what I mean, Molly. Does Mrs Moreland work
outside
the home?'

‘No. She runs a quilting course at the Thread Basket in Market Square every now and then, and she's a volunteer at the local library, but that's about it.'

‘A quilter?' Ormside looked thoughtful. ‘The wife used to do that years ago, and I remember her saying some of the best quilters were men. Do you know if there are any men in Mrs Moreland's classes?'

‘No idea,' said Molly. ‘Why?'

‘Just a thought,' Ormside said. ‘Any sign of marital problems?'

‘I think Joan Moreland and her husband were very happily married,' Molly said. ‘In fact, I think they were a very close family.'

‘Still, best to keep an open mind,' Ormside said. ‘Granted, even if one of them
was
playing away from home, it may not have anything to do with why Moreland was killed, but it's still a possible lead, so don't be too hasty in crossing that possibility off your list.'

He looked up at the clock. ‘Better get your notes written up and make enough copies for general distribution,' he said. ‘And make sure you put the highlights on the boards. Tregalles is down at SuperFair market talking to the people Dennis Moreland worked with, so maybe he'll pick up a lead there. There's a CCTV camera at the bottom of Osmond Street, and two more in the car park, but we looked at them yesterday and Moreland wasn't on any of them, so it looks as if he never made it to the bottom of the street, let alone into work.'

‘When will we have the post-mortem results?'

‘Not till Monday, I'm afraid.'

Molly looked puzzled. ‘I keep wondering how that could happen to someone like Dennis Moreland in Osmond Street. It's not a long street, and there are houses on both sides. There's no open land; there are no deep driveways or large bushes where someone could lie in wait. I suppose someone could have driven up in a car or van, grabbed him and bundled him inside. But if it did happen that way, you'd think there would have been a struggle; that Moreland would have shouted, and someone would have heard. So why didn't they? How could someone vanish in a street like that? And why him?'

‘All good questions, Molly,' Ormside agreed, ‘and the sooner we know the answers, the better, so—' The ringing of his phone cut off whatever it was he was about to say. He picked it up, then covered the mouthpiece with his hand. ‘Paget,' he whispered. ‘He's on his way in, so you'd better get on with those notes.'

Norman Beasley was a heavy-set, red-faced man with a balding head beneath a white cap, and a bulging stomach behind a striped apron. He looked every inch the butcher, Tregalles thought. They were standing outside on the loading dock, where Beasley had insisted they go to talk while he had a smoke. It had begun to rain, and there was a cold wind behind it.

Beasley sucked deeply on his cigarette. ‘You're lucky to have caught me here on a Saturday,' he said. ‘I'm only here because we've been a man short since Dennis went missing.' He picked a thread of tobacco off his lower lip and flicked it away. ‘I still can't believe the poor bugger's dead.'

‘You say he was a good worker, got on well with everybody and everybody liked him,' Tregalles summed up. ‘But somebody didn't. What about women? Anything going on between him and any of your female workers?'

Beasley sucked on his cigarette. ‘Not that I know of,' he said. ‘I'd've noticed if anything was going on here. We work pretty closely together, and the two girls in this department are married and have kids.'

‘But this is a big store and there are a lot of women working here. He must have mixed with them as well. Tea breaks and lunchtime? Social activities after work?'

‘Believe me, mate, you're barking up the wrong tree,' Beasley said decisively. ‘Dennis wasn't that sort, and why would he look somewhere else for his jollies with a nice little piece like Joanie waiting for him when he got home?'

‘Fancy her yourself, then, do you?'

Norman Beasley butted his cigarette and leaned closer to Tregalles. ‘I wouldn't say no if it was on offer, if you know what I mean,' he said. ‘You've seen her, haven't you?'

‘No, no I haven't,' Tregalles said, ‘but I'll take your word for it. Ever been tempted? Tried chatting her up?'

Beasley shook his head. ‘Not that I wouldn't have liked to,' he confided, ‘but it would've been more than my life's worth to have tried it on while Dennis was around. Very protective of Joanie he was.' He paused, and his eyes grew thoughtful as he looked off into the distance. ‘But he's not, now, is he?' he said slowly. ‘Around, I mean, and it's going to be hard for her with those two kids to bring up, so she's going to need a friend, someone she knows.' A sly smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘Like they say, it's an ill wind . . .'

Tregalles pulled back to look hard at the man. ‘Are you suggesting what I
think
you're suggesting?' he asked. ‘The man's not been dead five minutes.'

‘Which is why she's going to need some support,' Beasley shot back. ‘I'm only thinking of her, for Christ's sake! What do you think I am?'

‘To be honest, Mr Beasley, I'm still trying to work that out,' Tregalles said. ‘And, since you seem to be more than a little interested in Dennis Moreland's wife, you can tell me where you were last Thursday morning around six o'clock, when Dennis Moreland was on his way to work.'

Back at Charter Lane, Tregalles sought out Molly. ‘You've seen Mrs Moreland,' he said. ‘What's she like? Good looking, is she?'

‘She is as a matter of fact,' Molly said, ‘but that's a strange question to be asking about a woman who's just lost her husband.'

‘No, no,' Tregalles protested, ‘it's nothing like that. It's just that Moreland's boss seems to have more than a passing interest in Moreland's widow. In fact, if it weren't for the fact that there are witnesses who confirm where he was when Dennis Moreland disappeared, I'd have brought the slimy little toad in for questioning. But what about Mrs Moreland? What's your impression of her, Molly?'

‘She is a very attractive woman,' Molly agreed. ‘But if you're suggesting she might have been seeing someone else, I would doubt that very much.'

‘Certainly not his boss, then. He's a fat slob, but there could have been others. I couldn't talk to all of the people Moreland worked with today, so I'll try and catch the rest on Monday. Anyway, that's it for me, so I'm off. See you, Molly.'

The sergeant was on his way out of the building when he was stopped by Gavin Whitelaw, the PC who had been at the scene where Billy Travis was killed. ‘Got a minute, Sarge?' he asked, then lowered his voice. ‘I just heard about the bloke they found out at Clapperton quarry. They're saying it looks like the work of a serial killer, because it's the same MO as Billy. Is that right?'

‘That's right.' Tregalles glanced at his watch. Time was getting on and he'd told Audrey he would be home on time for dinner.

Whitelaw lowered his voice even further. ‘Same sort of thing carved in his forehead, was there?'

‘That information is still not being released,' Tregalles warned. He began to move away, but Whitelaw stopped him. ‘Was it an A like the first one?' he persisted.

‘Why are you so interested?' Tregalles asked. ‘Does it mean something to you?'

Whitelaw raised his hands, palms outwards, and backed away. ‘No, no, it's nothing like that,' he said quickly. ‘It's just that I keep seeing the way Billy looked out there. Can't get it out of my head, and now with another one . . .' He blew out his cheeks and flicked his head from side to side as if trying to clear it. ‘You think he might strike again?'

‘God knows, but I hope not.' Tregalles eased past Whitelaw and was about to continue on his way, when he paused. ‘And the less said about
that
, the better,' he warned. ‘All right?'

‘Right!' Whitelaw said. ‘Understood.'

When Paget arrived, Ormside called Molly over. She repeated what she had told the sergeant, concluding by saying that if there was a connection between Dennis Moreland and Billy Travis, she hadn't been able to find it. ‘I had a look at several family photos,' she said, ‘but I didn't see anything by Travis and son, and their wedding photos were done by a Ludlow photographer. I'm just finishing up my notes now, if you'd like a copy before you go home, sir. Give me fifteen minutes?'

Paget looked at the clock, but Ormside spoke up before he could answer. ‘Superintendent Pierce said she'd like a progress report before you leave,' he said. ‘In her office,' he added as Paget reached for the phone.

Paget put the phone down. ‘I don't know how long I'll be,' he told Molly, ‘so leave a copy of your notes on Sergeant Ormside's desk, and I'll pick it up on my way out.'

Judging by the amount of paper on her desk, Amanda Pierce looked as if she would be there for the rest of the evening. She was wearing glasses, which surprised him; he'd never seen her with glasses before. She removed them and waved him to a seat.

‘Is this normal?' she asked, indicating the heaps of paper.