Road Closed (32 page)

‘No. Some hotels have that facility but our system’s not that sophisticated. We encourage guests to leave their keys at the desk when they go out, just in case we need to evacuate. The smoke alarms go off all the time. We had one go off only last week. We had to get everyone out, and of course it turned out to be a false alarm. We had to go along the corridors banging on doors in case anyone was in, because they don’t always think to leave their keys when they go out so we don’t know who’s in and who’s out. It happens all the time. Whenever a guest leaves the door of the shower room open, the steam sets off the smoke alarm. We put signs up in every room, please close the cubicle door, but they still do it. Some idiot leaves the door open and it’s everybody out.’ She pulled a face and smiled at the sergeant.

‘Did you evacuate the hotel on Monday evening?’

‘Yes, I think we did, but only for a few minutes. We only had half the guests out. The shower had been turned off and we sorted it out pretty quickly. Sometimes the guest’s in the shower, and then they don’t always hear the alarm –’

‘Is it possible for you to tell us which room the alarm was set off from?’

The girl checked her screen, typing rapidly. ‘Room two hundred and thirteen. It’s on the second floor. Oh, that’s where that woman you were asking about was staying. How’s that for a funny coincidence.’ She looked up, but the sergeant was already running out of the building, looking for Geraldine.

By now she had walked to the edge of the patio and was gazing out past the cliff top across a grey ocean, wondering what lay below the ruffled surface. The clouds broke, letting through a shaft of winter sunlight. Brilliant dots flickered on the water far below reminding Geraldine of the blue ocean she had seen in Dubrovnik.

57

Suspicion

Geraldine drove fast on the way back. It took just over an hour.

‘At night you could do it in forty minutes,’ she said as they reached the outskirts of Harchester. Peterson grunted. He had been unusually quiet on the journey back as though reluctant to return home. The closer they got, the more morose he became. Geraldine glanced across at him. ‘Is everything all right?’ He grunted again but didn’t answer. ‘Is it Bev?’ she hazarded and was rewarded with a slightly more articulate noise. It could have been, ‘Yes.’

‘Do you want to talk about it?’ she asked gently.

‘Nothing to talk about,’ he answered gruffly adding, after a pause, ‘Bev’s left me.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’ It was a clumsy question, but she didn’t know what else to say. She liked Ian Peterson and felt genuine sympathy for his misery. At the same time, she was aware that her friendly impulse wasn’t entirely unselfish. Peterson seemed to have no problem attracting women. He would soon find another girlfriend. Geraldine was the one in need of friendship.

‘She’s left me. That’s all there is to it.’

‘Left you?’

‘We had a row, she packed a bag. She left.’ They drove on in silence. ‘Tell you what, gov,’ Peterson said as they pulled
into the station car park. ‘How about that drink?’ Geraldine smiled, relieved. ‘On one condition,’ he added.

‘What’s that?’

‘Two conditions, actually. We don’t talk about the case and we don’t mention Bev.’

‘You’re on.’

‘And you did say the first round’s on you?’ They both laughed.

‘So, I’ve got to watch what I say,’ Geraldine grinned as she handed the sergeant a pint in the pub over the road to the police station. ‘Here you are. Drown your sorrows.’

‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said, ‘I haven’t had time to mope about Bev all day.’ Geraldine smiled. Peterson finished his pint and stood up.

‘Just a half,’ Geraldine told him but he shook his head. ‘I get it. Now you’ve had a pint off me, you’re leaving,’ she laughed. ‘No time for –’

‘Let’s go somewhere else,’ he interrupted her. ‘They’ll all be piling in here soon and… I just thought it might be nice to talk about something else for a change. Get away from….’ he rolled his eyes around the bar, ‘all this. Just for an hour or so.’ Geraldine stood up and reached for her bag.

They found a quiet pub along the river on the other side of the motorway, past Ashford, where the river took a meander away from the railway line.

‘This is nice,’ Peterson said. He leaned on the rail and looked out over the water. It was a clear night. The river rippled faintly below them in the moonlight. Geraldine shivered. ‘Want to go inside?’ he asked. She smiled at his acuteness.

‘I’m fine out here.’ And she was.

After a while they went in. Cheered by the warmth of the pub, Geraldine relaxed. Their easy chat drifted back to their colleagues. Avoiding any mention of the case, they gossiped inconsequentially.

‘Don’t tell me you didn’t know Polly’s got a crush on you?’

Peterson turned away and coughed to hide his embarrassment. Geraldine laughed. ‘And what about you and the DCI?’ he asked. Although annoyed at being the subject of gossip, Geraldine didn’t mind her name being linked with the DCI; she was flattered.

The evening passed pleasantly. Oddly enough, although the sergeant knew all about the case, Geraldine found she could forget about it when talking to him. He was an amusing companion, and she liked him.

‘You gossip like a girl,’ she told him and he grinned sheepishly. She could tell he was pleased.

‘I don’t usually,’ he assured her. ‘Only with you.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

After dropping the sergeant back at the station, Geraldine went home to type up her report. She poured herself a large glass of wine before sitting down to work. The image of an old man drinking alone in a corner of a pub crossed her mind. She hesitated before pouring her wine down the kitchen sink. The she brewed a pot of coffee.

Next morning she sat at her desk wondering if Sophie Cliff could have paid someone else to assault Barker but the bungled attacks weren’t the work of a professional. As she tussled with possibilities, which grew more far fetched with each new thought, the duty sergeant tapped on her door. The DCI was on his way.

‘We’ve found Bert Cartwright.’ Ryder looked grim. ‘He’s been in the canal for about five days.’

‘The body’s been in the water all this time, without anyone seeing it?’ someone asked.

‘The divers brought him up with a bag of bricks tied round his neck. Whoever lifted it was strong. It seems unlikely Cartwright could have done that by himself.’ There was a long pause.

‘Bang goes any help Cartwright could have given us,’ Peterson said. They had been hoping Cartwright had gone into hiding out of fear, because he had information on Martin. They had done their best to find the old man before Martin did. And all the while, he had been lying at the bottom of the canal.

‘Maybe the PM will tell us something,’ the DCI said. He didn’t sound optimistic. ‘Now, what else have we got?’

Geraldine sketched out her theory. ‘Sophie Cliff booked into the Excelsior Hotel in Sandmouth for an open ended visit, stayed there until she’d achieved what she was there to do, then checked out on Tuesday morning, believing Raymond Barker had died in the fire she’d started in his house the previous evening. She could’ve slipped out under cover of a wedding party at around eight on Saturday evening, discovered Barker was in the pub, waited and attacked him on his way home at around eleven, returned to the hotel and slipped back in as all the guests were leaving.’

‘A lucky coincidence,’ the DCI remarked.

‘Not really, sir. It would’ve been easy enough for her to have checked what time the function finished so she’d know what time to return. It just fell right that she found Barker alone. She could’ve been stalking him, waiting for her chance. Only he didn’t die. She must’ve found out about that in the paper. Or she could have phoned the hospital. So she tried again. On Monday she set off an evacuation of guests from the hotel. She could’ve slipped up to her room after a quick dinner, set off the alarm at seven thirty, turned off the shower, and left the hotel in all the confusion of the alarm. Suppose she left at seven forty, she’d be back in Harchester at around eight twenty, just in time to see Martin arrive at the pub. Seeing Barker wasn’t with him, she could have broken into the house, found Barker, started the fire and left at eight thirty, to arrive back in the hotel at around nine fifteen. I daresay if we examine the footage, we might see her go back in although
it’s impossible to identify some of the guests, all bundled up in hats and scarves. It’s feasible she made the journeys, but we’re still left with the question of how she managed to get hold of a false licence.’

‘She could’ve used a stolen vehicle,’ Bennett said.

‘Or bought one,’ someone else suggested. They discussed the possibilities.

‘Perhaps she stole a car and it hasn’t been reported yet.’

‘The owner might be away.’

‘She could have borrowed a car.’

‘Or bought one. A cheap banger. A private sale.’

‘There’d be no record.’

Geraldine was depressed by all the speculation. They were going round in circles. Sophie’s movements might be almost impossible to trace. Geraldine put forward her theory that the suspect had hired a car under a false name, and travelled in disguise. Even she had to agree it sounded far fetched.

‘Check out all reports of stolen vehicles,’ the DCI said. He looked thoughtful. ‘But if she was using a stolen vehicle…’

The briefing broke up in an atmosphere of frustration. The optimism at the beginning of the case had faded rapidly. They were no closer to arresting the person responsible for Evelyn Green and Thomas Cliff’s deaths and since the investigation had opened Maggie Palmer and Bert Cartwright had been killed and someone had tried to murder Raymond Barker. All the records had been checked by constables, but Geraldine took copies of all the schedules from cab and car hire firms, stations and bus timetables, and known details of stolen vehicles, home with her. There were a lot of papers, but if there was anything to indicate how Sophie Cliff could have returned to Harchester undetected, she was determined to find it. There was always a possibility something had been overlooked.

Having drawn a blank with Sophie Cliff, Geraldine looked at Callum Martin again. The whole case seemed to be
unravelling, going nowhere. She was absorbed in trying to work out how they might crack Martin’s alibi when Craig phoned to discuss what they were going to do that evening. His cheerful voice jarred with her desperation. She answered more curtly than she had intended.

‘Sorry, I can’t spare the time right now.’

‘It’s Saturday night,’ he protested.

‘I’m sorry, my work’s no respecter of weekends. I’ve got some reports I must get through. We’re looking for a stolen car –’

‘Can’t it wait?’

‘No. I’m sorry. It really can’t.’ She explained that there was a killer on the loose and lives could be at risk. Her words sounded melodramatic. Craig would think she was making excuses.

There was a brief pause before he offered to pick her up the next day for an early supper. Geraldine knew she would be working all day, but she agreed to spend the evening with him. Sunday was technically her day off. She had to see Craig if their relationship was to stand a chance. He already sounded as though he might be losing interest in her, if he had ever been seriously interested in her in the first place.

‘What time shall I pick you up? Let’s make it early. I know this really nice little pub by the river.’

‘Sounds lovely,’ Geraldine replied. She was already flicking through the next report she had pulled out of her bag.

Geraldine worked late into the night trying to trace stolen vehicles picked up on cameras between Harchester and Sandmouth on Saturday and Monday evenings. No evidence she found seemed to match the theory that Sophie Cliff had returned to Harchester in a stolen car. Her head was full of a jumble of names and times. She might as well have spent the evening with Craig, she thought angrily, as she climbed into a cold bed. And somewhere nearby, a killer was probably sleeping peacefully.

58

Moving On

Sunday was frustrating. A couple of constables were taking phone calls, but the lines were relatively quiet. There wasn’t much else going on. Bennett was around, somewhere. There was no sign of the DCI.

‘It’s so boring, sitting here waiting,’ one of the constables complained as Geraldine walked past.

‘Tell me about it,’ Geraldine agreed. The waiting was the worst part.

She passed a dreary hour poring over statements, searching in vain for some detail that didn’t fit. It was dull work. She had read them all before. Finding herself struggling to concentrate, she took a break to clear her head. It was raining so she went up to the canteen for a coffee.

‘You any good at anagrams, Geraldine?’ Bennett called to her as she went in. He had a newspaper open on the table and was doing the crossword.

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Well, what about a clue then? Supports air, that’s good luck.’

Geraldine shook her head. ‘I haven’t got the patience.’ She sat down opposite him.

‘Good luck,’ Bennett muttered. ‘Lucky… What’s another word for good luck?’

‘Serendipity. Fortune.’

‘That’s it! Of course. Good luck is fortune. For-tune. Don’t you get it? When you support something, you’re for it, and
an air is another word for a tune. Well done.’ Geraldine wondered if Bennett had ever been this animated about his work. ‘What about this one?’

‘Sorry, Les. It’s all too clever for me.’

‘It’s really not difficult.’ He put his pen down. ‘It’s just a question of substituting the right word for the clue.’

Geraldine smiled. ‘I’m sorry but I can’t get excited about crosswords. Playing with words just doesn’t do it for me.’

‘One more clue?’

Geraldine shook her head and sighed. That wasn’t the sort of clue she needed right now. She finished her coffee and went back to her desk, leaving Bennett puzzling over his crossword.

Free from distraction, Geraldine should have been able to work her way through a great deal, but there was nothing demanding her attention apart from routine paperwork. Her thoughts kept wandering to Maggie Palmer. Presumably her children would miss her, but they were too young to deal with funeral arrangements and all the inconvenient paraphernalia of death.