Breaking Point (25 page)

As he led the way into the cavernous interior, his thoughts returned to Fletcher and Rose Ryan. He and Lyons had spent a good two hours with Richard Nichols, the owner of Hide and Seek in Lyddingham, as well as members of his staff, yet they'd learned nothing of any consequence about either Rose or Fletcher. Nichols senior had expressed both shock and sorrow at what had happened, but Tregalles got the feeling it had more to do with the possible loss of sales to male customers than any feeling for Rose herself. As for the rest of the staff, all of whom were women, they all said the same thing: Rose Ryan had never talked about the man she was living with, or about her past life.

Tregalles and Lyons found the foreman, Jack McCoy, talking to the driver of a forklift, a towheaded lad of about eighteen. McCoy finished his conversation with the boy, then waved him away and turned his attention to the sergeant.

‘Found Fletcher, yet?' he asked. ‘Saw his picture on the box the other night, but it didn't say why you wanted to talk to him. So why do you want to talk to him? What's he supposed to have done? You never said.'

‘That's right, I didn't,' Tregalles agreed. ‘And I still can't give you any details, but I would like to ask you and the rest of the crew a few questions.'

‘What sort of questions?' McCoy asked suspiciously. ‘Look, I don't know what all this is about, but if Gerry went and got himself in some sort of trouble, I don't know anything about it, and neither does anyone here.'

‘I'm not suggesting that you do,' Tregalles assured him, ‘but we do need your help. We are asking anyone who knew him if he ever said anything that might help us. He may have said something that didn't mean much at the time, but it might now. Can you think of anything like that?'

McCoy pushed out his lower lip as he thought about it, then slowly shook his head. ‘Can't think of anything,' he said at last. ‘But then, unless you tell me what sort of thing you're looking for, I can't say for sure, can I?'

‘What about his friends? Is there anyone here who was a particular friend of his?'

Again, McCoy shook his head. ‘No. Gerry's always been a bit of a loner. Doesn't mix much with the rest of the crew. I'd say your best bet would be the woman he lives with – or has she scarpered as well?'

‘Can't do that, I'm afraid,' Tregalles said. ‘She's dead.'

‘Bloody hell! What happened?'

‘Can't say at the moment. Did you know her?'

McCoy shook his head. He appeared to be shaken. ‘I knew he was living with someone, but I never met her, and Gerry never talked about her. Some of the lads would bring their wives or girlfriends along to the pub on a Saturday, but Gerry never did.' He eyed Tregalles narrowly. ‘Did he have anything to do with her death? Is that why you're looking for him?'

‘Now why would you think that?' Tregalles said. ‘I didn't say anything about the way she died.'

‘Well, no, but first you come here looking for Gerry and you won't say why, and now you tell me his woman is dead, so what am I supposed to think? How did she die?'

Tregalles ignored the question, and nodded in the direction of the loading platform where several men were hard at work. ‘I'm afraid we're wasting time,' he said. ‘I still need to talk to your men. Some of them must know something about the man.'

McCoy looked doubtful. ‘I don't think it will do you much good,' he said.

‘I still want to talk to them.'

‘Look,' McCoy said, ‘they'll only tell you the same as I have. It isn't that I don't want to help, but we've got schedules to meet, and they're all busy as you can see.'

‘Pity,' Tregalles said, ‘because I would have thought it would be a lot easier if I could get them together for ten or fifteen minutes here and now rather than taking them one by one for the next hour or so, which is my only alternative. Still, you know your own business best.'

McCoy's mouth twisted into a humourless smile as he eyed Tregalles. ‘You're a copper,' he said, ‘so you should know something about the law. Would you call that blackmail or coercion?'

‘Let's call it being practical, shall we? You must have a lunch room or somewhere like that where I can talk to them?'

The two men locked eyes for a long moment before McCoy heaved a sigh and gave in. ‘Over there,' he said, nodding in the direction of an open door. ‘I'll round them up, but I want them back on the job asap. We've a lot to get done today, and we don't pay overtime for things like this.'

There were eight of them in addition to McCoy. They came in and lined up against the wall and stood waiting silently. McCoy and two of the men took the opportunity to light cigarettes. Their ages varied from the gangly youngster who had been driving the forklift to a short, grey-haired man who must have been pushing sixty.

The fact that Gerry Fletcher was probably dead was not something Tregalles was prepared to reveal to these men at the moment, so he chose his words carefully.

‘The reason we are looking for Fletcher,' he said, ‘is because we have evidence that links him to certain illegal activities. But what we
don't
know is who his associates are. So what I would like from you is anything you can tell me about him that might have meant nothing to you at the time, but could have some significance now. I know you might not like the idea of talking to the police about a mate, but believe me, this is serious, very serious indeed, and we need your help.'

The men looked at one another, but no one spoke. ‘Come on,' he coaxed. ‘You worked alongside the man for months. He must have talked to you about
something.
Did he ever talk about people he knew or things he did off the job? Did he ever say or do anything that struck you as odd?'

The men looked at each other. No one seemed to want to be the first to speak until finally one of the smokers broke the silence.

‘Never had much chance, did we?' he said. ‘Not with him working over the other side. And he wasn't even
there
half the time.'

‘What do you mean by “the other side”?'

‘The repair bay,' the man said, flicking his head in the direction of the separate bay at the end of the building. ‘And he wasn't a mate.'

Tregalles looked to McCoy for an explanation.

‘He did a lot of our repair work,' McCoy said. ‘And he used to have to go into town every so often for parts and such. Sort of mechanic-cum-errand boy. We do our own maintenance on our vehicles, apart from major jobs, and Gerry is good at that sort of work.'

‘But when I was here earlier,' Tregalles said, ‘didn't you tell me that he was a loader and driver, and everyone had to be prepared to do whatever job came along?'

‘Yeah, well he was a driver originally, and he did a bit of general work when he first came here,' McCoy told him. ‘I didn't realize at the time that you wanted a
specific
job description.' He inclined his head toward the smoker. ‘But Stan's right. Gerry did spend a lot of time in the repair shop, and he never really mixed with the rest of the lads.'

‘Oh, come on, Mr McCoy
,
' Tregalles said, making no attempt to conceal his annoyance. ‘There's nothing but a breeze block wall between the repair bay and the rest of the bays, and the front is wide open. Hardly a mile away from everyone else, is it?' His eyes swept over the rest of the men. ‘So, what's the problem?'

One of the men stirred. ‘I can't speak for anyone else,' he said hesitantly, ‘but I'm glad he's gone. It wasn't that he
didn't
talk to us. It was the other way round; he never stopped talking. And it was always about him and what he'd done, where he'd been, and the women he'd had in France or Italy or Spain, and God knows how many other places, and I for one was sick of it, so I stayed out of his way.'

Heads were nodding as a murmur rippled through the ranks.

‘What about closer to home?' Tregalles asked. ‘If, as you say, he was the boastful type, did he ever say anything about his activities or exploits – whatever you want to call them – around here?'

The men looked at each other, then began to shake their heads.

‘Mr McCoy?'

The foreman shook his head. ‘Not to me, he didn't,' he said.

Tregalles tried again. ‘I understand he has done some work for a local farmer. What can you tell me about that?'

McCoy looked mystified. ‘Sorry,' he said, ‘but I wouldn't know about that. What sort of work?'

‘Fixing old farm machinery.'

‘Sounds like something Gerry might do,' said McCoy. ‘That was the one thing he
was
good at, but he never said anything to me about it.'

The oldest man there suddenly broke his silence. ‘Look,' he burst out, ‘I've got better things to do than stand around here talking about Gerry Fletcher. If you want the truth, Fletcher is a shifty bastard. I don't know what he's done, but it doesn't surprise me that the police want to talk to him. And as far as I'm concerned he was a lazy sod as well. Always skiving off, supposed to be going to town for one thing or another. He was gone more than he was here.'

He glared at McCoy. ‘Tell you the truth, I could never see why you put up with him. Me and the lads had no use for him, nor his—'

‘That's quite enough, Sam,' McCoy cut in sharply. ‘No need to go on about it.' He turned to Tregalles and shrugged an apology.

‘Sorry, Sergeant,' he said, ‘but I told you it would be a waste of time. We took Gerry on as a favour to an affiliate when he quit long-distance driving, but he never did fit in with the rest of the crew. But he was good on repairs, so that's where I put him. Now, can I let these men get back to work?'

Tregalles wasn't satisfied, but neither was he getting anywhere. ‘All right,' he said, ‘but if you should think of anything,' he called after the men as they left the room, ‘please let us know.'

McCoy butted his cigarette and was about to leave as well when Lyons spoke for the first time. ‘If Gerry Fletcher was such a misfit,' he said, ‘why would you have him working for you, at all, Mr McCoy?'

‘Because he was bloody good at fixing things on the cheap,' McCoy said harshly, ‘and one of my jobs is to keep costs down. That man could repair damned near anything on wheels, so I didn't give a shit about what else he did or what he might have been up to in his spare time as long as he got the job done. And that's the truth!'

Tregalles was unusually quiet during dinner. He couldn't get Sam Udall out of his mind. That was the name of the grey-haired man who had spoken with such vehemence about Fletcher. It hadn't been hard to pick Udall's name out of the list of employees, since he was clearly the oldest one there. Udall had all but challenged McCoy when he'd said he couldn't understand why Fletcher had been kept on, and Tregalles had the feeling that the man might have said more if McCoy hadn't stopped him.

Tregalles looked at the clock. So why spend the evening sitting here thinking about it, when it would be just as easy to go and talk to the man? He didn't live far away. Augustus Road was just across the river near the station. He could be there in ten minutes.

In fact, because Augustus Road was lined with cars, and the only place he could find to park was one street over, it was closer to half an hour before Tregalles mounted the steps of number 27 and rang the bell. Faintly, he heard a woman's voice calling, ‘Will you get that, Dad?'

The door was opened by Udall himself. He had a newspaper in his hand and steel-rimmed glasses shoved up on his head. His eyes narrowed when he recognized Tregalles, then shifted to look past the sergeant to take a quick survey of the street.

‘What do you want?' he asked suspiciously.

‘Sorry to disturb you, Mr Udall,' Tregalles said pleasantly, ‘but I'd like to follow up on something I believe you were about to tell us before you were interrupted earlier today. May I come in?' He stepped forward, but Udall moved to block him, and Tregalles was forced to step back.

‘No, you can't come in!' Udall told him. ‘And I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘Oh, I think you do, and I thought you might prefer to talk to me here rather than have to come down to the station with me, but we can do it that way if?'

Udall stepped forward, almost pushing Tregalles off the step. ‘Look,' he said, lowering his voice, ‘I don't know what you're on about, and I don't know where you got the idea that I do. Like me and the lads told you, we never had anything to do with Gerry Fletcher. He was a blowhard; nobody liked him and he never was one of the crew. And that's
all
I can tell you. If he's done something against the law, it wouldn't surprise me, but I know nothing about it. All right?' He stepped back and was about to close the door, but Tregalles put out his hand and held it open.

‘I'm not suggesting that you do know anything other than what you've told me,' he said, ‘but I believe you were about to mention someone else, a mate, perhaps, of Fletcher's, when McCoy stopped you. All I want to know is the name of that person. All right?'

‘Who is it, Dad?' the woman's voice called.

Udall glared at Tregalles. ‘Just someone looking for the Bishops down the road,' he called over his shoulder, then lowered his voice again as he turned back to Tregalles. ‘The name's Slater,' he said. ‘Nick Slater. Big fellah, Australian. He doesn't work for us, but he comes around a lot, and I think he's something to do with one of the major carriers. Sometimes he's there for a couple of days, then we won't see him for a week, but when he is there he spends a fair bit of time with Gerry – at least he did before Gerry took off. Now, go away and leave me alone!'

‘You say Slater spends a lot of time with Fletcher,' Tregalles said. ‘Doing what? What are they working on?'