Cut Short (19 page)

  'This is merely a routine enquiry,' she said. He looked at her sceptically but made no comment. They thanked Ron Rogers and took their leave.

  'Nice place,' Peterson muttered as the gates swung closed behind them.

  They drove through the centre of town and drew up outside a rundown block of flats in East Woolsmarsh where Terence Tillotson lived.

  'Let's hope she's here,' Geraldine said, screwing up her face at the smell of rotting vegetables and damp that clung to the air.

  'And confirms he wasn't, last Wednesday morning,' Peterson added. He sounded suddenly tense. No one came to the door when they rang the bell. The DS knocked loudly but there was no answer.

  'We'll have to try later,' Geraldine said, turning away. Peterson nodded and followed her to the car.

  Their next visit was to Mrs Merriott in Wisley Street. They found the house beside the letterbox easily. A tall bare tree stood in the middle of a sloping front lawn. Mrs Merriott peered beady eyed at Geraldine's warrant card before opening the door wide.

  'Oh yes,' she said, 'come in, come in. It's about Mr Paul is it?'

  'Mr Paul?'

  'Mr Paul, leaving his bins out the front all week. I've asked him not to. But it's very good of you to come along. How did you know?' Geraldine explained they'd come to ask about her gardener, Peter Lamprey. Mrs Merriott frowned. 'Peter the gardener?' she repeated, in surprise. 'Yes, he looks after things for me. He's a lovely man, Inspector, so obliging. He comes every week and does for a couple of hours. It's not really enough, but it's better than nothing. Keeps the weeds at bay.'

  'Was he here last week, Mrs Merriott?'

  'Oh yes. He never misses.'

  'Did he arrive on time last week?'

  'Yes. He's never late.'

  'And did he leave at his usual time?'

  'Yes, he did. Same as always. He comes week in, week out. Even when it's raining. He knows I rely on him. And there's always something to do in the garden. Or he can work in the greenhouse if it's raining. He always stops for a cup of tea and a chat. Such a nice man. He's not in any trouble is he?'

  'No, and thank you, Mrs Merriott.'

  'Now, you'll stop for a cup of tea, won't you? It won't take me a minute to put the kettle on.'

  'Thank you, Mrs Merriott, but we have to get on.' The old lady nodded, crestfallen. Their visit had probably been the highlight of her day.

  'Melanie Rogers again?' Peterson asked as they climbed back in the car.

  Geraldine nodded.

Melanie was on her own in the flat when the doorbell rang. She didn't recognise the man and woman standing outside and began to close the door when the woman held out a police identity card.

  'You can check with the police station,' she said. 'We'll wait.' There was an air of determination about the two strangers.

  'Did he send you?' Melanie asked suspiciously.

  'He?'

  'My father.'

  'We're here on police business, Miss Rogers. This has nothing to do with your father.'

  'You'd better come in then.' Melanie led them into the front room where she'd been tidying up. Clothes were heaped everywhere. She cleared two chairs for them. She had no idea what the police could possibly want with her and wished they would just go away.

  'Does Terence Tillotson live here?' the sergeant asked. Melanie looked at him. He had cute blue eyes, and was amazingly fit, but he looked way too serious. And boring.

  'Yes.'

  'We're interested in Mr Tillotson's movements last Wednesday.'

  'Why do you want to know?' Melanie demanded.

  The inspector cut in swiftly. 'Just answer our questions please, Miss Rogers.'

  Melanie swallowed. 'What is it you want to know?' she amended her question.

  'Can you tell us what were you doing last Wednesday morning?'

  'I was at work.' She gave them details of the art gallery where she was employed and confirmed that Terry didn't work on Wednesdays.

  Melanie wanted to finish tidying the flat before Terry came home, but the detectives kept on questioning her about Wednesday.

  'Think about this carefully, Melanie. It's important.' Melanie stared at the woman, disconcerted by her stern tone. For the first time, it crossed her mind that this could be serious.

  A vague memory flashed into her mind. 'This isn't about those women who were murdered in the park, is it?' she asked. 'That had nothing to do with Terry. He doesn't go to the park on Wednesdays.'

  'We need to eliminate him from our enquiries.'

  'You mean he's a suspect? That's crazy. Terry wouldn't hurt a fly. He's the gentlest person I've ever met. Tell me he's not a suspect? He can't be.'

  'Please calm down, Miss Rogers, and just answer the questions.'

  Melanie nodded. She thought about her answer. 'I was with Terry on Tuesday evening. We went shopping, and then we went out to eat. We were out late and Terry had a skinful.' She giggled suddenly. 'He told me he stayed in bed most of Wednesday morning. Hungover.' She shrugged. 'I had to get to work but I called him to check he was OK. When I popped home at lunch time he was still in bed.'

  'Could he have gone out during the morning, while you were at work?' the sergeant asked.

  Melanie shook her head. 'I wouldn't have thought so really, he was pretty sick.' She tried not to giggle.

  'But you can't be sure Terence Tillotson stayed here in this flat throughout the whole of last Wednesday morning?'

  'Well, I suppose he did. I wasn't here. But he was pretty sick. You can't really think he had anything to do with those women?'

  The detectives looked at one another and then rose to their feet. Neither of them answered her. They thanked her for her time and moved towards the door.

  Melanie was glad they were going. Terry would be back soon and she wanted to be ready for him. She'd been waiting all day to see him. But as the front door closed on the two detectives, an alarming suspicion entered her mind. Her father had warned her that Terry might sell her story to the papers, but what if he was hiding a more sinister secret? Thinking about it made her feel sick as she realised she didn't really know Terry at all. She'd been at work on Wednesday. Terry could have faked his hangover, knowing she'd provide him with an alibi. She tried to dismiss her fears, but kept coming back to the same thought. How could she be sure he hadn't gone out on Wednesday morning?

33

Reporter

Laurie Jackson didn't care about the low pay. He loved his job, and he was ambitious. He'd already worked on another local rag and was impatient to get on.

  'I won't be stuck on a local paper for ever,' he boasted to his colleagues. 'London, and the nationals, that's where I'm headed.' It had been a stroke of luck discovering that his landlady, Nora Mayberry, worked for the rock star Ron Rogers and his wife, former model Lynda Clare. To be first with a story about them would be a real scoop. It might get him a by-line in the nationals, with maybe even his picture alongside his name, 'our reporter, Laurence Jackson'.

  Laurie set to work on Nora Mayberry. He had to tread cautiously. His landlady knew he was a journalist, and when he'd found out who her employer was she'd told him in no uncertain terms what she thought about intrusive reporters.

  'Always pestering Mr Rogers, they are. And poor Mrs Rogers. Sometimes they can't even go out the front way because they're hanging about out there, with their cameras. Not that you'd be so ill-mannered, Mr Jackson, I'm sure.'

  'Oh, no,' he lied, smiling broadly. 'I've never been involved in the gossipy side of things, ferreting around in celebrity's dustbins and chasing after them in the street, and all that vulgar stuff. I'm a serious journalist, Mrs Mayberry. Believe me, I have a social conscience. Some of us do, you know. I investigate serious moral issues, how we can support young people, and so on.' The old bat swallowed it. 'Please,' he added, smiling confidentially, 'call me Laurie.'

  'And you can call me Nora.' He was not much younger than her son and she took a shine to the boy. She liked a friendly presence in the house.

  Laurie worked his socks off to charm the old lady. He always had a ready smile for her and sang the praises of her dull breakfasts. He even let her show him her albums of family photos. In return she sometimes shared news about the Rogers, but she was careful. She only ever told him what was already public knowledge. She was no fool, and loyal to her employers. Laurie bided his time and did everything in his power to earn her trust, just in case anything interesting came up. When it came, the story was well worth the wait. Nora had let slip a comment about Melanie Rogers' boyfriend. Laurie seized on the snippet of information and worried away at her gently. Finally, in desperation one evening Laurie succeeded in getting her tipsy by insisting she have a drink with him to celebrate his 'birthday'. That was when Nora confided that Mr Rogers flatly refused to allow his daughter's boyfriend in the house.

  'Although what's so wrong with him being a gardener, I don't know. It's a very respectable profession. But he's said he'll cut her off without a penny to her name, and I've no doubt that's what he'll do. He was never one to mince his words. So she's upped sticks and gone to live with the boyfriend.' She stopped suddenly. 'But I shouldn't be telling you all this, should I? You won't go printing it in your paper, now will you?' Laurie hurriedly reassured her of his discretion before running to his laptop to type up the story.

PROBLEMS IN PARADISE
By our reporter Laurence Jackson

In an exclusive, the
Woolsmarsh Chronicle
uncovers a
dramatic local crisis!

Melanie Rogers, beautiful daughter of rock star Ron Rogers and stunning international model Lynda Clare, is to lose her share of the family fortune. Blonde Melanie (22) has run away from home to live with the man she loves, our inside source reveals. Ron Rogers is threatening to disinherit his only child whose boyfriend works as a gardener.

The story didn't come out in the other local paper. The nationals picked it up the following day and Laurie was noticed by his editor, who called him in for a chat. At last, Laurie was on his way. Having to find new digs was a small price to pay. He packed his bags straightaway and found a dingy room near the park. His new landlady had one vacancy up on the top floor. She gazed anxiously at him with beady bright eyes as Laurie assured her he didn't mind sharing a bathroom with the tenant on the floor below.

  'That won't bother me, Mrs Lewis,' he told his new landlady cheerfully as he paid her a month's rent in advance. 'As long as there's a lock on my door.' He didn't add that he wasn't intending to stick around for long.

  'You're lucky,' Mrs Lewis said, 'I've just finished doing it up after my last gentleman left. The whole room's been freshly painted. It's all ready now. It's a nice room on the top floor with a view right over the park. My last tenant used to sit for hours by the window, looking down into the park. You've got a lovely view from up here, Mr Jackson.'

  Laurie gazed round at magnolia walls and thin rust coloured carpet and thanked his landlady. Her footsteps faded away down the stairs. He couldn't be bothered to unpack straight away. Instead, he pulled a chair up to the window and watched the daylight fade over the park.

34

Garage

The sun was setting as Geraldine approached her garage that evening. As she rounded the corner at the end of the building, she slammed on her brakes in shock. In large untidy red letters someone had written one word,
FILTH
, on the door. If the paint hadn't dripped, it would have been quite well executed. She took a deep breath, and controlled her fury, but she couldn't stop trembling. There was no longer any doubt that this was personal. She wondered who else had seen the message. Graffiti on her garage door was hardly likely to endear her to her new neighbours. She'd seen the man from the flat above hers twice. The first time he'd scurried past her along the corridor, head lowered. The second time he'd thrown her a worried smile but they'd never yet spoken. He was walking out of the adjoining garage as she approached hers. Their eyes met and she rolled down her window.

  'We've never had anything like this before,' he told her. It wasn't clear if he was apologising, or accusing Geraldine of bringing trouble to the flats. 'It's shocking.' He nodded at the garage. 'You with the police then?' Geraldine told him she was. 'That's all right then. I suppose your people will sort it out.' He turned and walked away without a backward glance.

  Geraldine rang the caretaker's bell.

  'Oh aye,' he said, scratching his head, when Geraldine explained. 'You'll be wanting me to clean it off, will you?' Geraldine hesitated, uncertain whether to offer him a tip.

  'I appreciate it's not one of your normal duties—' she began.

  'It's all part of the maintenance,' he interrupted her and she nodded. She paid enough in maintenance charges. 'Only I hope this is the end of it,' he went on. He was keen to report the vandalism to the police. 'It's the second time this has happened,' he grumbled.

  Geraldine informed him she was a police officer and her colleagues were too busy to investigate graffiti. 'It's not as if we don't have good security measures in place. I'm sure the properties are quite safe with you on site.' She smiled ingratiatingly at him.

  He gave her the security tape, relieved to pass on the responsibility. Geraldine took it up to her flat and scrolled through to Sunday evening. A shadowy hooded figure emerged out of the darkness, its face averted from the glare of security lights. She watched as one arm waved and letters appeared on the fence. With a vigorous run and leap, the figure grasped at the top of the fence with gloved hands and pulled itself up and over. She watched the film over and over again, searching for clues, but the image was too blurred to give much away and she was reluctant to hand it in at the station for analysis. She didn't want anyone else to know, as though it was somehow shameful.