Night Fall (19 page)

‘How is she?' Paget asked as he and Tregalles prepared to talk to Bronwyn Davies. ‘Things go all right at the mortuary? Any emotional problems?'

‘Depends what you mean by emotional problems, sir,' said Molly drily. ‘After she viewed the body, she said the only reason she agreed to come was to make sure that Whitelaw was dead. And she made a point of telling me she wasn't prepared to help us find his killer.'

‘She actually said that?'

‘She did, sir. And I'm sure she meant every word. She's a very bitter woman.'

Paget thought about that for a moment. ‘In that case,' he said, ‘since she already knows you, perhaps it would be best if you sit in with me rather than Tregalles. All right?'

Molly groaned inwardly, then said, ‘Certainly, sir,' and tried to sound as if she meant it.

Bronwyn Davies sat straight and rigid in her chair, lips pursed, eyes narrowed suspiciously. She looked up just long enough to register who was coming into the room, then looked away again. Paget introduced himself as he and Molly took their places facing her across the table, and said, ‘I believe you already know Detective Sergeant Forsythe.'

The woman stared at him, but gave no sign that she had heard what he'd said.

‘I know that coming here today must have been difficult and stressful for you,' Paget continued, ‘so this is an informal interview, and I'll try to keep it as short as possible. As you know, we are investigating the murder of your former husband, so any help you can give us regarding his activities before you parted company and moved away would be very much appreciated.'

Her eyes shifted to Molly, then back again to Paget. ‘Didn't she tell you I'm not interested in who killed him?' she said. ‘He stole ten years of my life and I'm glad he's dead. He deserved it, so why should I help you catch his killer?'

‘I'm sure you have your reasons for saying that,' said Paget, ‘but two other men have died at the hands of the same person, both good men according to those they left behind, and I'm very much afraid there could be more victims if we don't find the killer soon. So, much as I might regret your former husband's treatment of you, I cannot let that stand in the way of finding his killer before he kills again. Do you understand me, Ms Davies?'

Cold, unblinking eyes continued to stare at him from beneath half-lowered lids. But Paget's eyes didn't waver, and it was Bronwyn who looked away and said, ‘What do you want to know, then?'

‘First of all, did you ever hear him mention a man by the name of Billy Travis? He was a photographer. Or Dennis Moreland? He was a butcher.'

‘I don't think so,' she said slowly, ‘but then we were hardly on speaking terms the last couple of years before the divorce. He came and went, and Megan and I did our best to steer clear of him when he was home.'

‘Can you tell us anything about who his friends were? I haven't read the details of the divorce, but was there ever any suggestion that he might have been involved with criminal elements?'

Bronwyn stared at him. ‘You're asking
me
?' she said contemptuously. ‘He
worked
for you, for twelve years, for Christ's sake, and you let him get away with murder. It's no wonder people don't have much faith in the police any more, when you let someone like Gavin do as he pleases. Drinking on the job, skiving off to go and screw one of his fancy women while his partner sat outside in the car twiddling his thumbs. And you want me to help you?'

The woman shook her head in disgust. ‘God knows Gavin was bad enough, but what about his sergeant, eh? I haven't heard of anything happening to him, have I? Drinking together at all hours, womanizing, fiddling the overtime. Gavin used to boast about it. He'd make more in overtime some months than his regular wage, and he'd never worked a bit of it. Not that I ever saw any extra money. He'd sooner spend it on drink and betting and other women than let me see any of it.' Bronwyn sniffed contemptuously. ‘And that sergeant's still there, isn't he? Protect your own, no matter what. Isn't that it? Lie, cover up, whatever it takes. You're all the same. Well, we'll see about that!'

Her eyes glittered as she leaned forward and jabbed an accusing finger at Paget. ‘That man destroyed our lives,' she said softly, ‘and you and all the rest of you are responsible. So you can stew in your own juice, as far as I'm concerned, because I'm not the least bit interested in helping you find the person who killed Gavin. Good luck to him, I say.'

Bronwyn Davies picked up her handbag and got to her feet. ‘I'm going home now,' she said, ‘and I don't want to hear from you ever again. And I'll be sending you a bill for every single penny I've spent coming here.' She walked to the door, then paused to look back at Molly. ‘You seem like a decent sort,' she said, ‘so let me give you a bit of advice. Get the hell out of here while you can. This is no place for the likes of you.'

She flicked a glance at Paget as he got to his feet. ‘And I don't need you to see me out,' she said coldly. ‘I'm sure I can find my own way, thank you very much.'

‘Superintendent Alcott died last night,' Tregalles said as he hung the damp tea-towel up to dry. He leaned against the counter while Audrey put the last of the dinner plates away. ‘Paget told me this afternoon. Valerie Alcott rang to tell him this morning.'

‘Died?' Audrey said. ‘I didn't know he was ill. I knew he was in that care place in Tenborough, but I thought that was because he had a breakdown after his wife died. What happened? How did he die?'

‘Suicide, according to his daughter. He blamed himself for his wife's death from his second-hand smoke. She had emphysema if you remember.'

‘Oh, dear, I am sorry to hear that,' Audrey said softly. ‘How awful for the poor man, and for his family. I remember you used to go on about him, but I think you liked him, didn't you, love?'

‘I did,' Tregalles said. ‘He had a sharp tongue, and he was always in a hurry, always looking for a quick solution, but he always came round in the end, and he stood up to Brock for us on a good many occasions. He and Paget used to go a few rounds every now and again, but I know Paget was sorry to see him go, and he was sorrier still to hear the news this morning.'

‘How's Mr Paget getting on with his new boss, then?'

‘Superintendent Pierce?' Tregalles pursed his lips. ‘I don't really know,' he said slowly. ‘He hasn't said much to me about her, but he's been in a sort of funny mood ever since she came.'

Audrey sniffed. ‘Hardly surprising, since she took the job that was his by rights.' Audrey had always been a big fan of Paget's.

But Tregalles was shaking his head. ‘I don't think it's that,' he said. ‘I know they've run into each other before, years ago in the Met, and I don't think they like each other very much, but he hasn't said anything against her. And considering the lack of progress we've made on these murders since she came, she's been pretty decent about it. Alcott would have been screaming bloody murder by now, but she sits in on the briefings and seems to understand the problems we're facing. Though God knows what she tells Brock.'

‘You've changed your tune,' Audrey said. ‘You were dead set against her before. What happened?'

Tregalles frowned into the distance as if thinking hard. ‘I think it's those long legs,' he said slowly. ‘And she's got a gorgeous fig—' He yelped and scooted away as Audrey chased him out of the room snapping the tea-towel at his behind.

T
regalles looked at the clock. Twenty past ten. When he had asked Mike Fulbright to come in to make a statement, Fulbright had said he would be there at ten. He'd asked if he needed to bring his solicitor, and Tregalles had said, ‘By all means, if you think you're going to need one.'

He had hoped that Maxwell or Molly might find something in the material taken from the storage locker that would tie Whitelaw to Fulbright, but no such luck. Confirmation of the sale of the Nissan X-Trail some six months ago was found among the papers, which gave the lie to Fulbright's story, at least as far as Tregalles was concerned. ‘The man was not only broke after the divorce,' Maxwell said, ‘he was in debt up to his ears. He was in a court-ordered debt reduction programme, but it would have taken at least three or four years to pay it all off had he lived. And that's assuming he didn't incur any more debts along the way. Which might explain why he was living in the cheapest place he could find down on Prince Street.'

Molly had nothing better to offer. ‘The only things left from the locker are a couple of old biscuit tins full of odds and ends,' she said. ‘Mostly junk as far as I could see when I took a quick look last night, but you never know, so I'll go through them as soon as I get a chance and let you know if I find anything important.'

Mike Fulbright was forty minutes late, and he arrived without a
solicitor. ‘Sorry if I held you up,' he said breezily as they took their seats in the interview room, ‘but things to do, you know. Can't just leave them, can we? Specially when you're the boss.'

‘This interview will be recorded,' Tregalles said, then went on to explain the procedure to Fulbright, and nodded for Maxwell to start the recorder. He'd intended to have Molly sit in, but, having mentioned the biscuit tins, Molly said she'd like to go through them and get them out of the way.

‘Is there a problem?' he asked when he saw Fulbright frowning at the recorder.

‘No. No. None whatsoever,' Fulbright said expansively. ‘I'm here to help in any way I can.'

‘Good, I'm glad to hear it,' Tregalles said, ‘so perhaps you can begin by telling me why you felt it necessary to lie to DCI Paget and me when you said Gavin Whitelaw had come in to talk to you last week about trading in his car.'

Fulbright scowled. ‘I certainly did not lie!' he said indignantly, ‘and I didn't come here this morning to be treated like this. Gavin said he was thinking about trading his car in on a newer model, and we talked in general terms about that. As I told you, he was trying to get me to commit to a firm price for his car, but I told him I couldn't give him that without seeing it.'

‘Did he say he would bring it in?'

‘He said he'd think about it.' Fulbright did his best to look sad. ‘Unfortunately, he never had the chance, poor devil.'

‘And the make and model of the car you were discussing, sir, was a five-year-old Nissan X-Trail. Is that right?'

‘That is what I said, Sergeant,' Fulbright said tightly.

‘Did you talk about anything else?'

‘Oh, for God's sake, man, where is all this leading?' Fulbright demanded. ‘Yes, I suppose we talked of other things. I don't remember exactly.'

‘Including the recent murders of Billy Travis and Dennis Moreland?' Tregalles prodded.

Fulbright hesitated. ‘Why would we be talking about them?' he asked cautiously.

‘You tell me,' Tregalles said, ‘and please try to make what you tell me more believable than the load of bollocks you've been giving me about Whitelaw trading in his car.'

Fulbright's eyes narrowed. ‘I did not come here to be insulted, Sergeant,' he said thinly, ‘and I will not tolerate being spoken—'

‘It's not an insult when it's the truth,' Tregalles cut in, ‘so let's stop playing games and get to the truth, Mr Fulbright. You see, I have trouble believing you when I know that Whitelaw sold his car months ago to pay off debts. He was broke, he was living in a flea pit, and the furthest thing from his mind was buying a car. He couldn't afford a car of any description while he was still paying off debts. So I'll ask you again, what did you talk about?'

Fulbright stared hard at Tregalles. His jaw was set, but the slow rise of colour in his face betrayed him. ‘I don't know what you're talking about,' he said belligerently. ‘Why would he come in then?'

‘Exactly my question,' Tregalles told him. ‘Why, when he hadn't the faintest hope of buying a car, would he come in to talk to you? And it wasn't just talk, was it? It was a heated discussion, possibly even an argument. We have a witness who claims there was a lot of arm waving and shouting, and Whitelaw didn't look happy when he left. So I suggest we forget the load of crap you've been feeding me, and you start telling the truth. Which reminds me: where were you between midnight and three o'clock last Thursday morning?'

‘Courses,' Amanda announced briskly. ‘I've been looking at the record of the courses taken by all members of our staff in the past three years, and it appears that more than half of them were cancelled at the last minute. That's not a good sign, and I would like to correct that if I can, Neil. Apart from the odd case of sickness, I take it the rest of the cancellations were because of workload?'

‘That's right,' he said. ‘You've seen the figures, so you know what it's been like. You can cut staff and delay filling vacant positions, but there's always a price to pay, and one of the easiest things to cut back on is training. We budget for so many hours a year; we submit names and a proposed schedule, and Training uses that to allocate places. But when the time comes for that man or woman to go, all too often we simply can't afford to let them go for a week or sometimes two, so we cancel. It's a waste of our time making up a schedule we know we won't be able to keep, and it makes thing difficult for Training, because others are doing the same. And in some cases, a course has to be cancelled because it's not worth running for two or three people. So even the ones who
could
have gone lose out.

‘Not only that,' he continued, now in full flight, ‘most of our courses are taken at the West Mercia Training Centre in Hindlip Hall, and if we commit to a certain number of places, they have every right to charge us for those places if they aren't filled. If they have to cancel the course itself, it throws their scheduling out, and it leaves them with instructors idle for days or even weeks. Now, I'm sure West Mercia has similar problems, but it doesn't make for very good relations between the two regions. The result is, we're wasting time and money all the way up and down the line, and our people aren't as well trained as they should be.'