Breaking Point (16 page)

‘Tregalles. And Detective Constable Lyons.'

‘Right.' He stood there for a moment in the middle of the room as if trying to decide whether to return to his seat and invite them to sit down, or ask what they wanted first. He chose the latter and looked concerned as he asked, ‘What's this all about, then, Sergeant?' he asked. ‘Not an accident, I hope?'

‘No, nothing like that,' Tregalles assured him, ‘but we would like to ask you about one of your people.'

Skinner eyed Tregalles suspiciously. ‘What's his name, then, and what's he supposed to have done?' he demanded as he walked back to his desk and sat down. McCoy had already returned to his seat, and it was almost as an afterthought that Skinner waved Tregalles to the only remaining chair. Lyons was ignored completely.

‘His name is Gerry Fletcher, and we'd like to talk to him. Is he here?'

Skinner cast a quizzical glance at McCoy and said, ‘Is he, Jack?' Then: ‘Jack looks after the day-to-day running of the place,' he explained, ‘so everyone, other than the office staff, reports to him. Is Gerry about, Jack?'

McCoy eyed Tregalles narrowly as he took another drag on his cigarette before butting it. ‘He's doing a few errands in town,' he said. ‘What do you want him for?'

‘Do you know when he'll be back?'

‘Not for a while, I shouldn't think. He's got quite a bit to do, so he may not come back here when he's finished. He may go straight home.'

‘When you say he's in town, which town do you mean? Broadminster?'

‘That's right. You probably passed him on your way here.'

‘Can you tell me what he's driving?'

‘Just hold on a minute,' Skinner broke in. ‘Before we go any further, I'd like to know why you want to talk to one of my employees. It must be something dodgy if they sent out two detectives to talk to him, so I want to know what's going on. What's he supposed to have been up to, then?'

‘Sorry, Mr Skinner, but I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss that at the moment. All I can tell you is that we believe he may be able to help us with our enquiries into an incident that probably has nothing to do with his employment here. And while we're on the subject, what is his position here?'

Skinner cocked an eye in McCoy's direction, who shrugged and said, ‘Driver, loader, you name it. Bit of a mechanic as well. People who work for us have to do anything and everything; it's that sort of job.'

‘I must say I was surprised at the size of the place and the activity downstairs,' Tregalles said. ‘It seems almost too big for the area.'

‘That's the argument people used when they were trying to stop us from coming in here,' Skinner said, ‘but it's not. You see, we're a distribution point for the local area, and we combine several functions. You'll see all sorts of big-name container carriers off-loading here. Some of them will bring in as many as four furniture containers at a time. They off-load here for local distribution, and by local I mean anything within roughly a forty-mile radius. We use smaller carriers to take the individual containers on to their destination, or we store them here, depending on what the customer's instructions are. Of course, we do a lot of local moves as well.'

‘And you've been here how long now?'

‘Two years, give or take.'

‘And how long has Fletcher been with you?'

It was McCoy who answered. ‘Four or five months, something like that. Used to be a long-distance driver for one of our affiliates, but it got a bit too much for him; away from home a lot, and those long runs can take a lot out of you over time, so they asked if we would take him on. I think he grew up around here, Tenbury Wells or somewhere near there.'

‘Ever had any trouble with him?'

McCoy butted his cigarette. ‘Like what?' he asked.

‘In any way. Would you call him a reliable worker?'

‘He wouldn't be here if he wasn't,' Skinner growled. ‘Slackers don't last long round here.'

‘Mr McCoy . . .?'

The foreman shook his head. ‘He does his work like everyone else. As Mr Skinner said, if you don't pull your weight around here, you don't stay long.'

‘What do you know about him off the job? Do you socialize at all?'

‘Socialize?' McCoy chuckled softly. ‘We see enough of each other at work. Our boys work all hours, day and night sometimes, and when they do go home they hope to hell they aren't called out again to do a rush job. A few of us might go down the pub the odd time on a Friday or Saturday night, but even that doesn't happened very often.'

‘Right,' Tregalles said. ‘But I still need to know what sort of vehicle Fletcher is driving. And the registration.'

McCoy looked to Skinner for direction. ‘You don't just want to
talk
to Fletcher, do you?' Skinner said. ‘You're going to arrest him, aren't you? Why else would you want to know what he's driving? You're going to have him picked up, aren't you, Sergeant?'

Tregalles's expression gave nothing away. ‘As I said in the beginning, Mr Skinner, we need to talk to Mr Fletcher, but that is all I can tell you at the moment.'

Skinner stared hard at Tregalles for a long moment, then shrugged. ‘Might as well give it to him, Jack,' he growled. ‘The sooner we get this thing sorted, the better. But what I want to know is, will we be a man short tomorrow?'

‘It's entirely possible,' Tregalles said. ‘In fact, I'd say it's more than likely.'

‘T
hat's right, a Mazda pickup, red, or at least it used to be. I'm told it's pretty badly faded now.' Speaking on his mobile phone after leaving the RGS compound, Tregalles gave the description and registration to Ormside, along with a list of the places Fletcher was visiting.

‘But time's getting on, and his foreman seems to think he'll be going straight home when he's finished, so that's where Lyons and I are going now.'

‘Any reason to believe they will try to warn Fletcher?' Ormside asked.

‘They might try to contact him to ask what he's been up to, but I have no reason to believe the company is involved in any way. In fact, their main concern seemed to be whether or not he would be in to work tomorrow. Anyway, we'd better be getting on, so I'll keep you posted, Len.'

‘Looks like we're in luck,' said Lyons a few minutes later as they came within sight of the roadside cottages. There was an open space in front of the two cottages, and a small red truck with rusted bodywork was drawn up with its bumper almost touching the rough stone of the cottage on the left.

‘Pull in behind the truck and block it off,' Tregalles ordered, ‘then let's go and see what Fletcher has to say for himself.' A curtain twitched behind a tiny front window, but neither detective saw it as they got out of the car. ‘Better take the back in case he tries to do a runner,' Tregalles said as he put his hand on the bonnet of the truck. It was still warm, so it hadn't been there long.

They'd done a good job of converting the old pub into two separate cottages. In fact, if it hadn't been for the name of the pub over one of the doors, it would have been almost impossible to tell which was the original entrance. Built of local stone, the cottages sat at the foot of a steep hill, which, like most of the others in the area, was dotted with sheep. An idyllic setting if it hadn't been for the steady stream of traffic passing within twenty yards of the two front doors.

The sergeant moved to the front door and knocked, then knocked again, harder, sharper.

‘All right, all right, I'm coming,' a plaintive voice called out. The doorknob rattled and a slim, attractive woman of indeterminate age opened the door. She had long, chestnut-coloured hair, pale, almost translucent skin, and soft brown eyes that narrowed suspiciously when Tregalles held up his warrant card and introduced himself.

‘I'd like to talk to Mr Fletcher,' he said, preparing to step inside. ‘And you are . . .?'

‘None of your business who I am,' she said coldly, barring his way. ‘And he's out.'

‘Is he?' Tregalles said, feigning surprise. ‘In that case, would you mind telling me what the Mazda is doing here with its engine still warm? We know that's what he was driving.'

‘Don't know anything about that,' she said tartly, ‘but he's out and I don't know when he'll be back.' She tried to close the door, but Tregalles held it open.

‘In that case, I'll come in and wait,' he told her, and thrust the door back so hard that the woman was forced to step back. He took a folded paper from his pocket and held it up. ‘I have a warrant for his arrest, which entitles me to search these premises. So please stand aside, unless you wish to be arrested yourself for obstruction.'

Tregalles closed the door and locked it, pocketing the key before pushing past the woman to move swiftly through the cottage, pausing only long enough to check each room to make sure that Fletcher wasn't there. It wasn't hard; the rooms were small and there was virtually nowhere he could hide. Tregalles opened the back door and told Lyons to come inside and check upstairs. The stairs were narrow, the ceilings low, and Lyons had to bend almost double to avoid hitting his head as he went up.

‘Now,' Tregalles said, ‘you must be Rose. Rose what? Let's have your last name.'

‘Ryan,' she said grudgingly as Lyons came down the stairs shaking his head. ‘Look under the bed, did you?' she taunted. ‘I told you he isn't here.'

‘But he
was
here,' Tregalles said. ‘Do you have another car?'

‘Chance would be a fine thing,' she snorted. ‘Does it look as if we're made of money?'

Lyons was shifting uncomfortably from one foot to another.

‘There's a shed out back,' he said hesitantly. ‘I didn't have a chance to check it before you . . .'

The words trailed off because Tregalles was no longer listening. He'd seen the look on Rose's face at the mention of the shed. He moved swiftly to the back door and out into a small garden overgrown with weeds. Lyons followed, jostling with Rose as she tried to get to the door before him.

‘Gerry, go!' she screamed as Tregalles reached the shed. The door of the shed was locked, but even as he stood back to kick it in, he heard the unmistakably cough of an engine being started, and he knew exactly what it was. Lyons ran past him, heading for the back gate. Tregalles slammed his foot against the door. A crack appeared in the wood beside the door, but it refused to give completely. The sound inside the shed rose to screaming pitch as Tregalles slammed his shoulder against the door and stumbled through.

The stench of fumes engulfed him and stung his eyes as he watched the motorbike shoot through the wide-open double door at the back of the shed. Lyons, coming around the outside, lunged at the rider, but Fletcher's fist caught the constable on the side of the face, and Lyons crashed to the ground.

Tregalles ran to help him up. The lad would have a thumping great bruise to show for his efforts, he thought glumly, but that wasn't going to count for much with Paget when he had to explain how Fletcher had managed to escape.

Bike and rider were by now close to the top of the hill, and it looked to the sergeant as if Fletcher had his hand raised as he crested the rise. With two fingers extended, no doubt, he thought angrily. Tregalles looked back toward the house. Rose Ryan was standing at the door, waving madly, and the expression on her face was one of pure triumph.

Paget was reviewing the events of the day with Ormside when the call came through from Tregalles. The sergeant took the call. He listened for a moment, then said, ‘He's here now, so you had better tell him yourself.' He handed the phone to Paget, then sat down again.

There were things to be done; a manhunt to be set in motion, and neither he nor Paget would be leaving early tonight.

The clock on the church tower at the end of the village was striking the half hour as Grace made the turn toward home. She winced at the sound, not so much because of the dull, flat notes of the ancient chimes, but because it reminded her she was late once again. There wasn't much point in trying to make up the time now, but still she felt she had to hurry as she went down the hill and up the other side to the house.

She almost clipped the post as she swung into the driveway and hit the brakes within inches of the garage door. She turned the engine off, dropped the keys into her handbag, and it was only then she realized that Neil's car wasn't there, and there were no lights on in the house.

Grace took a deep breath and put a hand to her chest as if to quell the turmoil within. She sat like that with her eyes closed for several minutes, willing herself to be calm. The sound of a car climbing the hill broke into her thoughts, and she wondered if it was Neil. The car went by and she let out a sigh of relief as she got out and entered the house.

The light on the answering machine was blinking. She pressed the button and listened to the message.

‘Sorry, Grace, but I'm afraid we're going to be tied up here for a while. We've had a break on the Newman case, but . . . Well, let's just say there are complications. Tell you about it when I get home. I tried to get you on your mobile but it was switched off. I think it's time you changed the battery. Don't bother about a meal; I'll grab something to eat in town, so expect me when you see me. I should be home by ten or so. Love you, Grace. Bye for now.'

Grace sank into a chair and closed her eyes. Thank God for small mercies. She'd been wondering ever since she left town how she was going to explain to Neil why she was late again. She'd managed to avoid lying to him in the past, and she'd promised Charlie that she wouldn't blame her absence on overtime, but if Neil should decide to ask a direct question, she didn't know what she would say.

The truth? Oh, no. Right or wrong, she'd decided that wasn't an option. She glanced at the calendar on the wall, She'd hoped to have everything cleared away long before now, but the situation was getting worse. In fact, tonight had been a disaster. And Perelli, who was a decent man, and had always treated her well, had been almost threatening when he'd rung her at work a couple of days ago. She put her hands to her head; she felt as if the walls were closing in around her, suffocating her.