Paternoster (11 page)

‘I don’t mind. Make sure you give it to his daughter when you’re finished, though,’ Janice said. She glanced up sharply. ‘You think someone killed him, don’t you?’

This. Deliberate. Tried to kill me
. Janice was too shrewd to be taken in by airy demurrals. ‘Yes, I do.’

Janice stared her fiercely in the eyes. ‘Find who did it, Eden. For Paul.’

The council offices were a line of elegant townhouses with white stonework and delicate ironwork overlooking the war memorial and the farmers’ market. Eden went up the stone steps into the building and asked for directions. A winding staircase led to the second floor, where a glass door was stencilled ‘Planning’.

‘Can I help you?’

‘I’d like to speak to someone about Monday’s planning meeting, please.’

‘What about it?’ The woman looked her up and down without obvious interest.

‘It’s about a planning application.’

The woman pressed a button on her phone and summoned a colleague. ‘Donna’s coming,’ she informed Eden, as though she’d know automatically who Donna was.

Eden nodded and loitered in the lobby, reading the notices pinned to the wall until Donna arrived.

Donna was in her mid-forties, with chubby knees and an overdone hairstyle. Her black and red patterned skirt was too short and too tight and a red blouse gaped as it strained across her bust, betraying a snatch of red lacy bra. She flushed as she bustled up.

‘I’m Donna Small. You’ve got a question about a planning application?’ she asked.

‘I’ve got a query about Monday’s meeting.’

‘You’d better come to my office.’

Eden followed her across the offices into a small cubicle that held a computer, desk and chair. The edges of the monitor were tiled with post-it notes and the desk was cluttered with framed photos. A large black Mulberry bag occupied the only other chair in the cubicle. Donna hurried to move it so Eden could sit down.

‘Greg isn’t here at the moment,’ Donna started, ‘but I may be able to help you.’

‘Greg?’

‘Greg Barker, the head of planning. I’m his PA.’ Donna frowned. ‘You did say you’d got a query about a planning application?’

‘It’s more a question about Monday’s meeting,’ Eden said, leaning back in the chair and crossing her legs. ‘Can you tell me who was there?’

The pause button between Donna’s eyes deepened; the question evidently wasn’t what she was expecting. Her words tumbled over themselves as she answered. ‘The planning committee, as usual, and anyone who’d been asked to attend to discuss their application.’

‘Were you at the meeting?’

‘I take the minutes.’ A moment’s hesitation. ‘Are you a journalist?’

‘Is it possible to have a copy of the attendance list and the minutes?’

‘Not until they’ve been approved at the next meeting.’ Donna sounded affronted, as though it was the rudest question she’d ever been asked. ‘Look, what is it you want to know?’

Eden cut to the chase. ‘Was Paul Nelson at the meeting?’

‘Paul Nelson? Why?’

‘I just want to know if he was there, and how his planning application went.’ Donna raised her eyebrows. ‘You do know Paul Nelson?’

Donna’s eyes swivelled sideways. ‘Not really. I know who he is.’

Eden said nothing for a few seconds, watching Donna fiddling with her computer mouse, making a couple of clicks, her back half-turned to her, letting Eden know how important she was. Donna’s fingernails splayed out at the end, like shovels, and she wore them long. They clacked against the computer mouse. She had an expensive manicure, the sort that needs redoing every couple of weeks. She wore a sapphire ring on the middle finger of her right hand, and an emerald ring on the index finger of her left hand, but no wedding ring.

When Donna stopped fussing and turned back to her, Eden asked, ‘What time was the meeting?’

‘It always starts at seven,’ Donna said. ‘Look, what’s this about?’

‘Paul Nelson died this morning. I’m trying to find out what happened to him.’

Donna paled. ‘Paul?’ She blinked rapidly several times, then stared down at her hands for some time. When she spoke, it was a croak. ‘Dead?’

Eden nodded. ‘I’m afraid so,’ she said, gently.

Another croak. ‘How?’

Eden shrugged. ‘We’re not sure at the moment, that’s why I’m trying to trace his movements.’

Donna’s head shot up again. ‘Are you the police?’

‘I’m investigating Paul Nelson’s death.’ Eden leaned forward, her forearms resting on her knees. She looked Donna in the eyes and said, smoothly, ‘Tell me about the meeting.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Was Paul Nelson there?’

A nod of the head.

‘Did you speak to him?’

‘No, not really … that is, just normal things. You know?’

‘How did he seem?’

Donna shrugged. ‘Just as usual. Just … Paul.’

‘What about his planning application? He was there because he had an application that was being discussed. What was it for?’

‘Erm, something about a development in Cheltenham. A Regency building he was going to convert. He wanted to dig below the foundations to create an extra floor.’

‘Was his application approved?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t say.’ Flustered now, Donna was rearranging papers and muddling them up again.

‘You took the minutes.’

‘Yes, but …’ Donna swallowed. ‘I think it would be better if you spoke to Greg about all this. He’s the one to tell you, not me.’

‘Tell me what?’

‘Tell you anything.’

Exhausted from only two hours’ sleep, and cranky that Donna had clammed up and refused to say anything until she saw Greg, Eden wasn’t in the mood for games. Donna told her Greg would be back at two, but it was after three before he rocked up. Donna peeped out at her from the safety of her cubicle from time to time, her eyes wary, but she didn’t speak to Eden again.

Greg Barker was in his early forties with sandy hair and an incipient bald patch, and nourishing a gut that was starting to overspill his waistband. He bundled into the department trailing a scent of cold air and a garlicky lunch. As he came in, Donna scrambled to her feet and started to call, ‘Greg, there’s someone here to see you.’

Before Donna could reach him, Eden rose from her seat and thrust out her hand.

‘Greg Barker? I’m Eden Grey, I’d like to speak to you about Paul Nelson.’

‘Paul Nelson?’

‘In private, please.’

Greg raised his eyebrows but didn’t argue. Not many people did when Eden used that tone, she’d found. He led her to his office, pausing on the way to demand Donna make him a large black coffee. Donna glanced up at Eden, a pleading look in her eyes, but for what, Eden wasn’t sure. Don’t dob me in to my boss? Don’t let him know what I told you? Not that she’d said much.

Greg parked himself in an executive leather chair behind a desk that was too small, and leaned back with one foot resting on his knee. He was wearing superhero socks, a different superhero for each day. Today was Batman.

‘Now, how can I help you, Miss …?’

‘Grey. Were you at the planning meeting on Monday?’

‘Of course, I’m head of planning.’ A smirk rippled across his face as he announced this.

‘Was Paul Nelson there?’

‘Yes.’

‘How well do you know Paul?’

‘I’ve crossed swords with him over planning applications in the past, yes.’ Greg grinned a wolfish grin.

‘And his current planning application – was it approved?’

‘That’s between the committee and Paul, Miss Grey.’

Eden fixed him with a stare. Greg tipped back in his chair, rocking gently. Smug, comfortable, arrogant. Time to shake him up a bit. ‘You’ll have difficulty communicating with Mr Nelson from now on, unless you have a medium on your staff.’

A moment’s confusion while he processed what she’d just said. ‘What?’ The chair thumped back down.

‘Paul Nelson’s dead. He died this morning.’

‘What was it? A heart attack?’

‘The doctors aren’t sure how he died,’ Eden said. ‘I’m investigating the circumstances surrounding his death. The outcome of the planning meeting may be relevant.’

Greg bounced forwards in his seat. ‘Yes, of course. Anything I can do to help.’ He rang Donna and ordered her to print out a copy of the minutes. ‘He didn’t … do anything silly, did he?’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘I mean, I know the building business isn’t going well, and we all have our troubles, and you know, sometimes everything can get on top of you …’ He stumbled to a halt. ‘Where’s Donna with that coffee? Gone to Colombia for it?’

He picked up his phone and pressed a button, and told Donna to hurry up with the coffee. ‘And have you got any paracetamol I can borrow?’

Donna appeared moments later with a mug of coffee and a packet of painkillers. Her hands trembled as she put them in front of Greg, and a drop of coffee slopped on to the desk. A look passed between her and Greg as she left; a look Eden couldn’t interpret.

Greg punched two tablets out of their silver coffins and popped them in his mouth, swallowing them with a slug of coffee. They didn’t go down easily, and he choked. Eden was reminded of her gran, who always crushed tablets up and hid the powder in a spoonful of jam, and she felt a pang for simpler times.

‘How was Paul on Monday evening?’ Eden asked, when Greg had thumped his chest and managed to get the painkillers to go down.

‘Fine, I think. We didn’t talk for long, just a few pleasantries before and after the meeting.’

‘And his application?’

Greg inhaled noisily through his nose. ‘It was rejected, I’m afraid. God, I feel awful now. If I’d known he was in that state of mind, well, you never think, do you?’

‘How did Paul react when his application was turned down?’

Greg puffed out his cheeks. ‘He seemed to take it on the chin. But then, maybe he went home and it all was a bit much. I remember thinking when he arrived at the meeting that he seemed a bit quiet.’

‘He seemed depressed before the meeting?’

Greg shrugged. ‘Not depressed, exactly, but as though he had a lot on his mind.’ He raised his eyes to hers. ‘That’s what I thought – a man with a lot on his mind.’

‘You said you spoke at the end of the meeting,’ Eden said. ‘Did he say where he was going then?’

‘No, I presumed he was going home.’

‘And that was the last time you saw him, or spoke to him?’

Greg’s eyes bored into hers. ‘That’s right. Last time I saw him was when the meeting ended.’

Chris Wilde, he of the Christmas pudding bobble hat, was at home when she called round. His glistening hair and the whiff of deodorant betrayed that he’d not long got out of the shower. He stared at her for a moment before speaking, his brow furrowed.

‘You’re that nosy detective, aren’t you? Taking pictures of me the other day.’

‘That’s me.’

‘What do you want now?’

‘To talk about Paul Nelson. You work for him?’

Chris Wilde pulled a face. ‘Not any more, thanks to you.’

‘What happened?’

‘What’s it got to do with you? You got paid to follow me, then I presume it was you who told Paul you thought I was on the take.’

‘When did you last see Paul?’

Chris rasped the stubble down the side of his face. ‘He came round here on Monday.’

She could imagine why. She herself had warned that if Chris Wilde put in his resignation before Paul sacked him, he could try to claim pension benefits.

‘What did he want?’

‘That’s my business.’

‘Paul Nelson’s dead,’ she said, bluntly, keen to see his reaction.

Chris slumped against the doorframe as the colour drained from his face. ‘Was it a car accident?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘You said he was here on Monday. What time?’

‘Six. No, half five. He rang and asked to see me.’

‘How long was he here for?’

‘Not long: the wife was getting dinner ready and Paul said he was going to a meeting afterwards.’

‘And?’

‘And?’

‘What did you and Paul talk about?’

Chris’s eyes darkened. ‘He accused me of lying about my bad back. I told him I was going to resign. He just laughed at me. I lost my temper and threw him out of the house.’

She’d seen his temper in action, grabbing her camera from her and threatening to hurl it to the ground. She wondered what he’d said or done to Paul. Had he hit him? Tried to kill him?

‘Lost your temper?’

‘Don’t you start getting ideas. It’s my house. I don’t have to put up with him accusing me like that. I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘Who said anything about killing?’ she said, as a red stain spread up Chris’s neck and face.

There were a few bones missing from each of the skeletons. Little fingers, some ribs, a toe or two. They were laid out on plastic sheets on top of a gurney, the pieces of the skulls at the top, and the rest of the bones articulated below.

Aidan cast a professional eye over the skeletons and turned to the forensic anthropologist the police had called in to examine the remains. Lisa Greene: petite, thirty-five, with reddish hair in a pixie crop that lent her an elfin look; famous for her extensive repertoire of filthy songs and respected for her uncompromising approach to life and disregard for people she regarded as tossers.

‘Old?’ he asked, twitching his head at the skeletons.

‘Old,’ she replied. ‘My report will put the age of the remains at over a hundred years. They’re really crumbly so I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re two hundred years old, but I’d need carbon dating to confirm it.’

‘Will the police pay for that?’

She laughed, a throaty growl that betrayed a dedicated cigarette habit. ‘Not a hope.’

‘We found the tip of a blade when we dug out the rib cage,’ Aidan said. ‘I thought there were a couple of nicks on the ribs. What do you reckon?’

She selected one of the ribs. ‘This one. Yes, there’s a pre-mortem wound here. No sign of healing at all. Looks like the knife snapped when he was stabbed. A bugger, eh?’ She looked across at the other gurney. ‘There’s nothing on the other skeleton, the woman, to indicate how she died.’