Night Fall (18 page)

‘In short, what I'm suggesting, Neil, is that we even out the load.'

‘And telling me that I haven't been doing my job?' he said thinly.

A hint of steel crept into Amanda's next words. ‘What I'm saying, Neil, is that you haven't been
allowed
to do your job because of so many pressures from all sides. When you took on the responsibilities of a DCI, the vacancy you'd left behind wasn't filled, so, as you said yourself, you took that workload with you. Then, when Superintendent Alcott left so suddenly, you ended up trying to do all three jobs.'

Amanda sat back. ‘I believe we can correct that situation if we redistribute the workload. Give Tregalles more responsibility; let's see what he can do when he has to make some of the decisions you've been making. Give him a chance to come out from under your shadow, and let's see what Forsythe can do as well. I don't see this as a formal arrangement – there are no acting positions, no extra pay is involved. In fact, I don't think we should even tell them what we're doing. I suggest we simply do it. Just gradually shift responsibilities onto their shoulders and see how they respond. It'll be good training for them, and it'll relieve you. I know how much you like to be out there on the front line, but you can't do it all, Neil. You have to let the others shoulder some of the load and responsibility.'

Paget remained silent, elbows on the arms of the chair and fingers steepled, as he tried to decide whether he was being reprimanded for not doing his job, or if Amanda was genuinely interested in evening out the workload. It would mean spending more time in the office while more interesting things were happening in the field, and he would miss that part of the job. On the other hand, that was the way it was supposed to work. More troubling was the realization that he had done nothing to change the situation himself. In fact he had used the lack of manpower to justify doing much of the fieldwork that should have been left to Tregalles and the rest of the team. Now, he was being called on it by none other than Amanda Pierce, and he was finding that hard to swallow, especially when his inner voice was telling him she was right.

‘Well, Neil?' Amanda prodded gently.

He drew a deep breath and let it out again. ‘You're probably right,' he conceded as he got to his feet. ‘Is that all?'

Amanda sensed resistance in the words. ‘For now,' she said neutrally. ‘We'll review the situation in a month and see how it's going.'

Returning to his office, Paget had only just sat down when the phone rang. ‘Press office here, sir,' a young female voice said when he answered. ‘Just had a call from the
Sun.
They say they've had an anonymous tip about the recent murders, and they want to know if it's true that the letter A was carved in the forehead of each victim. Our orders here are not to release that information, so I gave him the usual “unable to confirm at this time”, but I got the impression they might run with it as a speculative piece anyway.'

‘That wouldn't surprise me,' Paget said. ‘Thanks for letting me know. I'll get back to you if there's any change.'

He had hoped to keep that information under wraps, but he'd known it would only be a matter of time before it was leaked to the press. There was always someone willing to take a few quid under the table in return for information. He thought about it for a moment, then picked up the phone. No matter how they had obtained the information, he'd better warn Amanda. Regardless of his personal feelings, they were still a team, and she had enough on her plate without being blindsided by something like this.

‘Doesn't matter how she tried to wrap it up and put a bow on it, she was telling me I haven't been doing my job,' Paget concluded after telling Grace about his session with Amanda that morning. ‘The trouble is she's right, but I didn't have much choice with the way things have been.'

‘Which she recognized, from what you've told me,' Grace said. ‘In fact, what she's suggesting sounds like a sensible solution. I know how much you like to be out there on the front line, but I'm sure John Tregalles is quite capable of doing the job, and it'll give Molly Forsythe more responsibility and a worthwhile bit of training before she moves on. And it just might allow you to have a life as well, so no matter what you may think of Superintendent Pierce, or what she did before, I think she's on the right track now.'

Amanda Pierce clicked the remote and the picture on the screen faded to black. She'd been trying to take her mind off what she saw as a disaster in the making, but it wasn't working. Coming into a new job at any time could be difficult, especially when you were competing in what was still very much a man's world, but the timing in this case couldn't have been worse. A serial killer on her patch; three people dead, all killed in the same way, yet seemingly unconnected in any other way.

As if that weren't enough, the DCI leading the investigation hated her. Not that she could blame Neil for feeling that way, but that part of her life was over now. She'd done her best to put it behind her and she had hoped – vainly now, she realized – that Neil might have done the same. Stupid of her. It had been too much to expect, given the circumstances.

Twirling the stem of an empty wine glass absently between her fingers, Amanda got up and wandered over to the window. The only light in the room came from a street lamp a few yards from the building. A desultory drizzle had begun just after nine o'clock, but it was raining steadily now and it looked as if it had settled in for the night. Normally the street was busy until midnight, but by now the traffic had all but disappeared, and there wasn't a pedestrian to be seen. Not a night to be out and about.

Behind her the mantel clock chimed eleven. She should go to bed and try to sleep, but she knew it would be pointless. Amanda moved to the table and picked up the half-empty bottle of an Australian Riesling she'd discovered recently, and refilled her glass. Too many things to think about; too many memories buzzing around inside her head as she settled into the armchair and wrapped the darkness around her.

F
ollowing the briefing next morning, Molly Forsythe and DC Maxwell were given the task of going through the files and loose papers in the box taken from the storage locker, which included several old chequebooks. Maxwell had only recently rejoined the team after spending a year with the fraud squad on white collar crime, where he'd acquired some accounting skills. So anything to do with money, bills, invoices, credit cards, bank statements and so on, was to be turned over to him.

‘As for the rest,' Ormside told Molly, ‘files, papers, letters, whatever else is in there, go through them carefully. We still need that connection between the victims.' He sat down at his desk and turned his attention to Tregalles. ‘You said something during the briefing about talking to one of the salesmen at Bridge Street Motors last night,' he said. ‘What was that about?'

‘Just a bit of fishing, that's all,' Tregalles said. ‘I just happened to be down near there last evening, and I saw the salesman, a chap by the name of Leyland, who was there the day Paget and I went to see Mike Fulbright. So I stopped in and asked him if he'd been there when Whitelaw had gone in to see Fulbright, and he said he was. Then he said, “You mean the day they had the argument?”

‘He said he was outside, but he could see them through the window. Whitelaw was waving his arms about, and their voices were raised, but not enough that he could hear what was said. But one thing's for sure,' Tregalles ended, ‘whatever they were arguing about, I'll lay odds it wasn't about a non-existent Nissan X-Trail station wagon.'

Paget pulled a folder from the in tray and opened it. He looked at the date and mentally winced. Two months old, and he'd barely looked at it in all that time. Fortunately, timing wasn't all that important in this case, but it did serve to remind him that he had not been giving his full attention to this part of the job. He just wished it had been someone other than Amanda Pierce who had pointed that out to him.

The ringing of the phone interrupted his train of thought.

‘I have an outside caller asking to speak to you, sir,' said a female voice when he answered. ‘She says her name is Valerie Alcott.'

Valerie! Alcott's youngest daughter. ‘Yes, by all means, put her through,' he said.

‘Valerie,' he said when he heard her voice. ‘How are you, and—'

‘Sorry to trouble you at work, Mr Paget,' Valerie cut in apologetically, ‘but I thought you would want to know. My father died last night.'

‘Oh, Valerie, I'm so very sorry. Is there anything I can do? Is anyone with you? Is your sister with you?'

‘Celeste?' Valerie was trying hard to control her voice. ‘No. I phoned her, of course, but she . . . she won't be coming. She and Dad never . . .' She drew a deep, shuddering breath. ‘It's just that it was a shock, even though I was afraid it might happen this way. He didn't want to live any more, Mr Paget. He hanged himself.'

Her voice caught, and it was a moment before she could go on. ‘It's just that he always spoke so highly of you, and you were so helpful when he went missing, I thought . . .' She broke down and began to cry.

‘Where are you, Valerie?' he asked. ‘Are you at home? Would you like me to come over?'

‘No, no thank you. I'm all right, really I am. I've been handling Dad's affairs since he went into . . . into hospital, and his solicitor has been very helpful, so he's coming round to help me sort things out. He said there will have to be an inquest.'

The full impact of what Valerie had said finally sank in, and he felt as if he had been kicked in the stomach, followed closely by an overwhelming feeling of guilt. He'd been meaning to visit Thomas Alcott ever since he'd been transferred to the psychiatric long-term care unit in Tenborough. But that was two months ago, and somehow the time had slipped by and he'd never made it.

‘Are you still there, Mr Paget?'

‘Yes. Yes, I am, Valerie. It's just that I don't know what to say. I liked your father very much, and I'm so sorry to hear he's gone.'

‘He blamed himself, you know.' Her voice was firmer now. ‘Blamed himself for my mother's death. His second-hand smoke. He never got over it. But he's at peace now, and I have to accept that.' She drew a deep breath. ‘Sorry to go on like that, but I think you understand.'

‘I do,' said Paget. ‘And I mean it: if there's anything I can do, please don't hesitate to call me. The funeral . . .? I suppose that will depend upon the inquest?'

‘That's right. But I will let you know, and it'll be in the paper, of course. Goodbye, and thank you again, Mr Paget.'

He hung up the phone. His vision was blurred and his nose wouldn't stop running. He opened the bottom drawer of the desk, took out a couple of Kleenex and blew hard.

The phone on Ormside's desk rang. The blinking light indicated a call from the front office.

‘There's a woman by the name of Davies out here at the front desk,' he was told when he answered. ‘Says she used to be Mrs Whitelaw. She says she's come up from Cardiff to ID the body.'

‘Right,' Ormside said. So she had decided to come after all. Perhaps it was the offer to pay her way that had changed her mind. ‘Hold her there and I'll have someone come for her in a few minutes. Be nice to her. Offer her a cup of tea and a biscuit.'

He dropped the phone back on its rest, then got up and went down the hall to the room next door where Molly and Maxwell were working their way through Whitelaw's effects.

‘Sorry to drag you away, Molly,' he said, ‘but I've got a job for you. Bronwyn Davies, Whitelaw's ex-wife, is here to ID his body. She's at the front desk. I'd like you to take care of her, then bring her back here, because Mr Paget wants to talk to her himself.'

Bronwyn Davies was a small, dark-haired woman, who told Molly that she was only there because she feared there would be ‘consequences' if she didn't comply. When Molly asked what she meant by that, what she got in return was a disdainful toss of the head, and, ‘
You
know very well what I mean, so don't pretend you don't!' The remark made no sense whatsoever to Molly, but, wisely, she let it go.

During the short drive to the mortuary, Bronwyn Davies complained bitterly about the inconvenience of having to come back to Broadminster to identify her former husband, when, as she said, ‘Any one of your lot could have done the same, because he spent more time at work than he ever did with me.'

They'd done a pretty good job on his face, considering its appearance on the night he died, but it was still not a pleasant sight. Bronwyn showed no emotion as she looked down on her former husband, then turned away without saying a word.

‘This
is
Gavin Whitelaw?' Molly prompted. She wanted to get it right this time.

‘Of course it's bloody Gavin Whitelaw,' Bronwyn snapped. ‘Can we go now?' She looked at her watch. ‘How long is this interview thing going to take?'

‘I shouldn't think it will take very long,' Molly said, hoping that she wouldn't have to take part. She was finding it hard enough to be civil to the woman as it was, so the sooner she was rid of her the better. She checked herself. Perhaps she was being unfair. Bronwyn Davies had been reluctant to come to ID the body of her former husband, but she had come. So, perhaps, in spite of everything that had gone on before, there were some deeply hidden feelings beneath the hard and brittle exterior she was presenting to the world.

Impulsively, she said, ‘I'm sorry you had to come all this way to do this, Ms Davies. It's never a pleasant duty under any circumstances, so thank you.'

Bronwyn shot a sidelong glance at Molly, then shook her head. ‘You really mean that, don't you?' she said as if in wonder. ‘After what he did to me, the only reason I came back here today was to make sure the bastard was dead, and if you think I'm going to help you find who killed him, you can forget it.'