A Killing Resurrected (18 page)

Sharon shook her head slowly from side to side. ‘I remember hearing about Mr Taylor being killed along with the woman from the jeweller's, because we used to get our bread and pies from Taylor's bakery, so we knew who he was. But I don't remember anything about a suicide. Sorry, Molly, but I really don't.'

‘What about Rachel?' she asked. ‘Would she remember some of the names?'

‘She might,' Sharon said without conviction. ‘Haven't seen her in years, though. She went off with some bloke a couple of months before we were robbed, but I've no idea where they went. Haven't heard from her since.'

‘What was Rachel's last name?'

Sharon frowned in concentration as she looked up at the ceiling. ‘It was a funny name,' she said at last. Foreign, like. Could have been German or something like that. Sorry, but I really can't remember.'

Later, as Molly drove home and thought about what she'd heard, she couldn't help wondering about Sharon's memory, or lack of it when it came to names. She'd been clear enough about the details of the robbery, but couldn't seem to remember a single name of the boys she'd been with, or that of her friend. And unless she was a much better actress than Molly gave her credit for, the name of Barry Grant had meant nothing to her.

L
isa Corbett slept in on Wednesday morning. At least it was late for Lisa, who was usually up by six and well into her morning exercises by six-fifteen. But this morning she'd decided this was going to be one of her free days. She did that every so often; giving herself a day off from her normal routine. Oh, she would still do her warm-up stretches and her regular daily run, but she would skip the hour of exercise in what she called her mini-gym that separated her bedroom from Roger's.

She lay there, her naked body covered only by a single sheet, eyes half closed against a shaft of sunlight edging ever closer to her face. She'd get up before it reached her eyes, she told herself, then changed her mind and slid out of bed. She paused to cast a critical eye at the image of herself in the full-length mirror, turning this way and that before moving on. Thirty-five and still looking good, she told herself as she made her way to the shower.

Lisa was proud of her body, and she had every right to be, considering how hard she'd worked to keep it that way for much of her life. Even so, Ramon was probably right; perhaps she did need to shed a couple of pounds. It was surprising how even a pound or two could make a difference to their movements on the dance floor, and she hadn't been watching her diet as closely as she should have during the run-up to the competition.

They'd taken a third at Scarborough, which was good for them, considering the calibre of the competition, but they had both gone up there with high hopes of coming out on top this time, so it was disappointing. Lisa was still convinced that they could have made second if the one judge hadn't been so tight with his marks. But that was all part of the business, and you just had to live with it and try again another day.

Lisa dried herself off, then stepped on to the scales and slowly shook her head. The man was uncanny. Two pounds it was, almost to the ounce. But then, Ramon was rarely wrong about things like that.

She wrapped herself in a bathrobe, brushed out her hair, then wound a towel turban-fashion around her head before going out on to the terrace to stand with her face to the sun. It was going to be hot again today, but right now it was just pleasantly warm, and Lisa was in no hurry to get dressed.

She walked to the edge of the terrace and sat down on the flagstones at the top of the steps leading down to the lawn. Roger should have been up by now if he intended to go to work, but from what she'd seen last night, he would probably come staggering out about ten. Well, that was his problem. As far as she was concerned, Lisa intended to enjoy the morning.

The flagstones were warm. Lisa drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around them and rocked gently back and forth as she took in the familiar scene.

Birds flitted from branch to branch in the trees shading the pond at the bottom of the garden, their twittering and muttering among themselves pierced every so often by the clear, triple trill of a song thrush, barely visible in the shadow of the hedge. A pair of nuthatches worked their way up and down a tree trunk, while from across the fields, in Miller's Copse, came the muted chuck-chuck-chuff sound of a partridge.

Up here on Rutherford Hill, with its tree-lined streets and broad boulevards, it was almost like living in the country. Lisa had spent many happy hours in this house and in this garden as a child, for this had been her grandmother's house, and Lisa's home whenever her parents were out of the country, which had been most of the time until she was ten.

Her house now. And Roger's, of course, but not for very much longer. She was still very fond of him, but until he admitted that he had a problem, there was nothing more that she could do. She'd had enough, and it was time to call it quits.

Lisa pushed the thought to the back of her mind. It was too pleasant out here to be thinking about that. The warmth of the sun, the sound of the birds and the faint smell of hay was seductive, and Lisa could feel herself drifting . . .

But whether she liked it or not, there were things to be done, she reminded herself as she looked at her watch. There wasn't much left in the fridge. The milk was going off – hardly surprising in this weather, which meant there was shopping to do, and she wanted to get it done before it became too hot and muggy in town.

Lisa stood up and stretched. Time to get dressed, but what to wear? Dress or halter and shorts? Dress, she decided as she re-entered the house. She'd spent enough time in the sun with Ramon before coming home; best not to overdo the tan.

She'd call Roger before she went out. He could do what he liked about his own breakfast or lunch, depending on the time.

‘Just as well Tregalles wasn't with you,' Paget observed when he read Molly's report. ‘I doubt if Mrs Jessop would have been as forthcoming if a man had been there.'

‘I'm sure she wouldn't,' Molly agreed, ‘but even then, when I asked her to give me the names of former boyfriends, she insisted that she couldn't remember any of them.'

‘Did you remind her that by withholding information she could be shielding a murderer?'

‘I did, sir, but it made no difference. I got no reaction whatsoever when I mentioned Barry Grant, but I still think she's holding something back. However, I would like to try to find her old girlfriend, Rachel, and see what she remembers. I don't think it should be too hard to find out who, in the evangelical community, left here some fourteen years ago to do missionary work, leaving behind a daughter named Rachel.'

Paget nodded approvingly. ‘Good idea,' he said. ‘Anything else, Constable?'

Molly wondered if she should mention the bruises on Sharon's face and arms, but decided against it. It was pure speculation that the woman was being abused, and she couldn't see how it could be relevant to the case. She shook her head. ‘I believe that's all for now, sir.'

‘Right. So, who are you and Tregalles seeing today?'

Molly flipped her notebook open. ‘Just the two remaining people who were at the poker game,' she said. ‘Dr Gerald Warden at the Broadminster Clinic, and Paul Preston, owner of Preston's Superior Leasing and Rentals – they're the ones who have all that heavy equipment, like JVCs and such out on the Clunbridge Road. Unfortunately, Walter Roach, the solicitor who hosted the card game, left the area several years ago to join a firm in London, and Alice Nelson died last year.'

Molly glanced at the time. ‘Dr Warden said he could see us between nine and ten, before the clinic opens, so if there's nothing else, sir, I'd better be off.' She moved towards the door, then paused. ‘Is there any word on how Mrs Alcott is doing, sir?' she asked. ‘I've only met her once, and only for a few minutes, but she seemed very nice.'

‘You've met Mrs Alcott?' Paget sounded surprised. ‘When was that?'

‘A couple of months ago,' Molly told him. ‘We happened to park our cars next to each other in the Village Mall car park one Saturday. It was just after I received the results from the Sergeant's exam. I said hello, and was about to carry on, but Mr Alcott stopped me and introduced me to his wife. It was a bit embarrassing, really, because she said the Superintendent had told her about me, and she congratulated me on my marks. It took me by surprise, because I'd never thought of the Superintendent as . . .'

Molly stopped speaking. Now she
was
embarrassed. She hadn't meant to run on like that, especially to DCI Paget.

‘Never thought of him as having a softer side?' Paget said with a smile. ‘I doubt if many of us have,' he said. ‘Unfortunately, Mrs Alcott's condition is not good, and only time will tell how things will go. But kind of you to ask, Forsythe. Very kind indeed.'

‘This is the list of people we've talked to,' Sergeant Ormside told Tregalles, ‘and we still have a couple of dozen to go. There may be more, but we've drawn a blank so far. No one, and I
mean
no one
, will admit to having been a close friend of Barry Grant. They admit to knowing him, and some have told us stories about him, but that's all.'

‘And we're not doing any better with the people who were robbed,' Tregalles told him. ‘Anyway, I see Molly's back, and we've got an appointment with Dr Warden at nine, so we'd better get on. I just hope he isn't another pillock like Appleyard.'

In the event, Dr Warden kept them waiting until twenty minutes to ten, and even then he kept glancing at his watch as Tregalles and Molly questioned him. In his late fifties or early sixties, he was short, sharp-featured, and impatient. No, he hadn't thought about the robbery in years, and he certainly couldn't tell them anything more than he'd told the inspector at the time of the first investigation. The one thing he did remember, however, was the amount taken from him.

‘Eight hundred and forty-five pounds,' he said heatedly. ‘All because of Roach! He's the one who wanted us to settle up each time with cash. But then, that's a solicitor for you.'

‘What were you doing before that?' asked Molly. ‘I mean, how did you settle up?'

‘Originally, we kept a tally of our wins and losses, then settled up at the end of each month, usually by cheque, but Roach decided he didn't like that. He wanted cash. I wasn't much in favour, but no one else objected, so I went along, and look what it got me.'

‘How long before the robbery did you make the change to cash?'

Warden frowned in concentration. ‘Must have been about six or eight months before,' he said at last. ‘I don't remember exactly. I know we'd been doing it for some time, but I can tell you, we never did
that
again. I think, between us, we lost over four thousand pounds that night.'

Tregalles took up the questioning again, but it soon became obvious that Warden had nothing more to tell them. ‘Just one more thing, doctor,' the Sergeant said as they were leaving, ‘can you tell us where we can find Mr Roach?'

Warden shook his head. ‘Left here four or five years ago,' he said. ‘I heard he went with some firm in London, but I'm nor sure about that. Sorry, can't help you.'

‘He wasn't a close friend, then?'

‘Good lord, no! Insufferable man! But he played one hell of a game of poker.'

They met Paul Preston at his house, a two-storey rambling conversion about a mile past the Broadminster town limits, and within half a mile of his business. The house was on a wooded rise, almost hidden from the road, and Preston himself came out to greet them as Tregalles brought the car to a stop at the top of the circular driveway.

Dressed in an open-necked shirt, shorts and sandals, he was a tall, round-shouldered man, with white hair, white moustache and a kindly face. He shook hands with both of them and then asked if they would mind walking with him through a nature trail behind the house. ‘Heart,' he told them cryptic-ally. ‘Triple bypass. I walk each day at this time and I like to stick to a routine. Never did much walking before, but I wouldn't miss it now.

‘Don't worry,' he said as he saw Tregalles squint at the sun, almost at its zenith, now, ‘it's cooler in the woods. Come on, Sergeant, you'll enjoy it.'

The walk was a pleasant one, but they were well along the forest path before Tregalles was finally able to persuade Preston that while they were interested in the events leading up to his heart attack, and the operation itself, they were more interested in what he could recall about the robbery that had taken place thirteen years ago.

Preston apologized, then launched into a rambling account of the robbery and a history of each player and their skills, or lack of them, as poker players, before coming back to his heart attack once more.

Molly and Tregalles walked with Preston for the best part of an hour, and tried hard to keep him focused on the robbery, but in the end they learned nothing they didn't know before – at least about the robbery.

‘Well, that was a total waste of time,' Tregalles grumbled as they got into the car.

‘Oh, I don't know,' said Molly. ‘At least we shouldn't have any trouble recognizing the early warning signs of a heart attack in future, so it was instructive. And I enjoyed the walk. We should do that sort of thing more often.'

T
he timing of Claire Hammond's visit to David Taylor's shop was by no means accidental. She had chosen to arrive fifteen minutes before the shop was due to close quite deliberately, because she knew there was little likelihood of anyone coming in after that. David had been keeping the shop open till six in the hope of catching people coming off work, but as he'd told Claire, only three customers had come in after five in the past month, and only one of those had bought anything, so he had gone back to shutting the shop at five.