The Cold Hand of Malice (22 page)

Davenport had told them that when he became ill and lost his job at the car wash on Prince Street, it was Chloe who had looked after him as best she could, so when she said she was going to break into a house to look for cash, and he couldn’t dissuade her, he felt the least he could do was go with her to make sure she wasn’t caught.

When asked how the house was chosen, he said Chloe had had her eye on it for some time, because she knew that the man who owned it worked the evening shift at one of the clubs.

Ormside had spoken to the proprietor of the car wash on Prince Street, and he confirmed that Josh had worked there until just before Christmas, but when he failed to come in to work two days running, someone else was hired to take his place. ‘Don’t know what happened to him,’ he admitted when Ormside asked, ‘but then, that’s not my problem, is it? Not when I’ve got a business to run.’

There had been no hesitation when Davenport was asked to give the name and address of his friend in Chester, and the man had confirmed Davenport’s story when Ormside contacted him by phone. ‘Shame about old Josh,’ he’d said. ‘Nice chap; brilliant in many ways, but just can’t hack it in the real world. Turns up here every so often. Give him a bed, feed him up, but then I’ll wake up one morning to find him gone.’

When Davenport was asked who did the damage in the Dunbar Road burglary, he said it was Chloe who did that. ‘She was so frustrated when she couldn’t find any money that she just lashed out with that bar of hers. Which,’ he continued, ‘was another reason I decided to take her with me to Chester. I thought she might do something daft if I left her in that state.’

Paget swirled the remains of his coffee in the bottom of the mug as he said, ‘Which means, if we accept as fact that Josh and Chloe only did the one burglary, then it looks as if Forsythe is right, and the rest of the burglaries were staged as a lead-up to the killing of Laura Holbrook. But two people working together? If that is the case, then it seems at least likely that one of them had to be Holbrook himself. Especially if there is any truth to the suggestion that he was unhappy about the way Laura had taken over. But who is the other one? Susan Chase? She was certainly in there straight away. Moira Ballantyne is another possibility, as is Tim Bryce – he had something to gain by getting rid of her. Peggy Goodwin had good reason to hate Laura, but why wait a couple of years before killing her? But one thing we do know – provided Trevor Ballantyne isn’t lying through his teeth, and I can’t think of a reason why he would do that – Holbrook himself couldn’t have killed Laura; his partner has to be the one who did that. I know, I know,’ he said as he saw the look Ormside gave him, ‘your money is still on Moira, but I think I’m leaning more and more toward Susan Chase. She’s just too good to be true.

‘But that’s for another day,’ he said, glancing guiltily at the clock. Tonight was to be Grace’s first painting lesson, and he didn’t want to be late getting home.

‘Just one thing before you go,’ Ormside said. ‘Laura Holbrook’s funeral is at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning at St Margaret’s, which would make it roughly eleven forty-five at the cemetery for the interment, according to the chap I spoke to. You planning on going?’

‘To the cemetery, yes,’ said Paget as he shrugged into his coat. ‘After all, you never know who will turn up at funerals, do you?’

Nineteen

Friday, March 13

The cemetery was on the side of a hill. It wasn’t a steep slope, but the long grass was wet and slippery underfoot, the results of a shower during the night, and some of the ladies in their open-toed and high-heeled shoes didn’t look too happy as they followed the casket to the graveside.

There was quite a large gathering around the grave. Simon Holbrook and his late wife’s sister, Susan Chase, stood next to the vicar, and slightly behind them and to one side stood Trevor and Moira Ballantyne. Beside them were several people who seemed to be more or less on their own, possibly friends or distant relatives. Tim Bryce was there as well. He had placed himself at a respectful distance from his uncle, but in such a way that Simon Holbrook was bound to see him there.

At the bottom end of the open grave, facing the vicar, was another small group, some of whom Tregalles was able to identify as members of the badminton club, headed by Bernard Fiske, while on the side opposite Holbrook, completing the circle, were what must have been almost the entire staff of Holbrook Micro-Engineering Laboratories, led by Peggy Goodwin.

But there was one man who stood a little apart from the rest as if not quite sure which group, if any, he should join. Fiftyish, perhaps, grey hair, slim, very well-dressed. He stood with head bowed, hands resting on the handle of the furled umbrella in front of him.

The two detectives stayed well back from the graveside. They were there only to observe.

The interment service was brief, and the casket was being lowered when Tregalles spoke. ‘Take a look at sister Susie,’ he muttered. ‘See how she’s holding on to Holbrook’s arm? Doesn’t look to me as if he’s grieving all that much, either.’

Tregalles might well be right in his assessment of the situation, but Paget couldn’t help thinking back to his own tragic loss, when he should have been there at the graveside to say his last goodbye to Jill. But he hadn’t been there; hadn’t even known the funeral was taking place. Oh, there were pictures, and friends had done their best to tell him everything. His old boss and close friend, Bob McKenzie, had even had the ceremony and the interment videotaped, but it wasn’t the same. He had no actual
memories
! Nothing. The weeks immediately following Jill’s death had been taken from his life as neatly as if they had been surgically removed. Gone, never to be recaptured, and he felt cheated as he watched the casket containing Laura Holbrook’s body disappear into the ground.

His thoughts were interrupted by a nudge from Tregalles. ‘Take a look at Mrs Ballantyne,’ the sergeant said softly.

Paget scanned the faces around the graveside. Almost everyone’s eyes were cast down as the vicar read the closing prayer, but Moira Ballantyne’s eyes were fixed on Holbrook and Susan Chase. It was a speculative look, and there was something about the set of her jaw, the slightly narrowed eyes, and the way her head was tilted that suggested she was trying very hard to work something out.

The service ended with the lowering of the casket while Holbrook and Susan Chase each came forward to drop a single rose as it disappeared from view. The vicar closed his book and stepped away.

One by one, people began to leave, some pausing to say a few words to Simon and Susan, while others simply drifted away to their cars lined up on the road below. The man they’d observed standing apart from the others waited until the very last to approach Holbrook. Simon said something to Susan Chase, who moved away and began to walk slowly down the hill by herself. The detectives were too far away to hear any words, but it seemed to Paget that there was a certain stiffness between the two men. The man stepped back, said something, then turned and walked rapidly away. Holbrook followed more slowly to join Susan, who stood waiting at the bottom of the hill.

The grey-haired man was in his car and pulling out by the time the two detectives reached the road, and more from habit than for any other reason, Paget took out his notebook and jotted down the numbers on the fast receding plate.

‘Just curious,’ he said by way of explanation, ‘but let’s find out who he is anyway.’

‘Probably a solicitor by the look of him,’ Tregalles said as he copied the numbers in his own book, ‘but it shouldn’t take long to find out since he’s driving a brand new Mercedes.’

‘Fiona wants you to ring her,’ Ormside told Paget when he and Tregalles returned to Charter Lane. ‘The super’s gone home with some sort of bilious attack – probably the flu by the sound of it, so he won’t be able to attend a meeting with Mr Brock this afternoon, and he’d like you to stand in for him. Fiona says she has the information you’ll need if you would like to study it beforehand.’

Paget eyed the sergeant stonily. An afternoon in a meeting with Chief Superintendent Brock was not his idea of how to end the week. ‘Did she say when, where and what it is all about?’ he asked.

Ormside wrinkled his nose in a way that told Paget he wasn’t going to like the answer. ‘Clear-up rates and the lack of,’ the sergeant said. ‘Two o’clock in Mr Brock’s office.’

Paget was about to leave when he caught sight of the calendar on Ormside’s desk. Friday the thirteenth! He might have known.

Saturday afternoon, March 14

‘Just going to pop down the road to Milverton’s,’ Peggy Goodwin told her mother as she slipped a coat over her shoulders. ‘Won’t be long. Anything you need?’

‘Don’t think so, love. Oh, yes there is, come to think of it,’ her mother said. ‘Bring back a lasagne for supper. Arthur likes that, and you’ll be staying, will you?’

Peggy paused at the door. She had a lot of work waiting for her at home, and she wasn’t keen on the deep-dish frozen lasagne her mother was so fond of, but she knew her mother would be disappointed if she said no. ‘Yes, I’ll be staying,’ she said, ‘but I shall have to leave soon after. I have a lot to do at home.’

It was the same every Saturday. Business in the gift shop always tapered off by mid-afternoon, and that was when Peggy did her shopping for the week. Milverton’s wasn’t the best place in town to shop, but it was handy, and Tesco’s was half a mile away, parking would be at a premium, and the store would be packed. Peggy went through the same mental exercise almost every week, and she always ended up at Milverton’s.

With her mind on other things, Peggy barely noticed the short, plump, middle-aged woman coming toward her until they were only a few feet apart, and even then it took her a moment to realize that she knew the woman. ‘Billie?’ she said, stopping dead in her tracks. ‘Billie Strickland? Is that really you?’

‘Peggy!’ The woman beamed ‘Well I’ll be damned! Fancy running into you on the street like this.’ The smiled faded into a guilty grimace as she glanced around. ‘You won’t tell anyone you saw me, though, will you? I mean John would be furious if he knew, but I just had to come to check out the lie of the land, so to speak. Do you live around here?’

‘My mother has the gift shop,’ Peggy told her with a nod over her shoulder. ‘But what are you doing here, Billie? And why mustn’t John know?’

Billie Strickland leaned closer to Peggy. ‘As if you didn’t know,’ she said in a hoarse whisper, then drew back and winked. ‘But the boys must have their little secrets and play their little games, mustn’t they? Still,’ she sighed, ‘I suppose it’s necessary in this sort of business. John says the deal is as good as done, but it’s all hush-hush until it’s finalized. But then, you’d know more about that than I do, wouldn’t you, being in the thick of things, so to speak?’

Peggy had no idea what Billie Strickland was talking about, but her curiosity was piqued, and she wanted to know more. ‘Look,’ she said, taking Billie’s arm, ‘there’s a lovely little tea room at the end of the street. Why don’t we go down there and have a cup of tea and a scone – or a butter tart?’ Billie could never resist the pastries.

The woman closed her eyes and heaved a gentle sigh. ‘You’re like an angel from heaven,’ she breathed. ‘My feet are killing me and I could murder a cup of tea. Please, lead on, and it’s my treat.’

‘Sorry I took so long, Mum,’ said Peggy breathlessly as she entered the shop and set two bags of groceries on the floor behind the counter, ‘but I bumped into an old friend I haven’t seen in years, and she insisted that I go and have a cup of tea with her down at Mabel’s, and the time just slipped by.’

‘That’s all right, love,’ her mother said. ‘I’ve only had one customer since you left, and it will soon be time to shut the shop in any case. You did say you’d stay for supper, didn’t you, Peg?’

‘I did, but I shall have to eat and run, I’m afraid.’ She glanced at the time. ‘In fact, if it’s all right with you, I’ll put the oven on now and get started on the vegetables. Is Arthur still out the back in the workshop?’

Her mother nodded. ‘Better give him a shout and tell him supper will be early so he can come in and wash up,’ she said.

Peggy took the packaged lasagne from one of the bags and went down the passage to the kitchen. Only part of her mind was on what she was doing; the rest of it was still back there in the tea shop, listening to Billie Strickland talk about her husband, John.

‘He wanted me to come with him, of course, and I said I’d think about it, but having seen the place for myself, I’ve made up my mind. There is no way I could come here to live, even if it is only for six months to a year. Not that I have anything against Broadminster,
per se
,’ she added hastily. ‘It’s a charming town in its own way, but you must admit it isn’t Birmingham or even Solihull, now is it, Peggy? I mean where are the shops? The theatres? The restaurants?’

That would be a sticking point with Billie, Peggy thought. Cutting Billie off from the amenities of the big city would be like depriving her of air.

‘No,’ Billie continued determinedly, ‘John will have to commute and come home on the weekends. Henry has assured him that everything will be ready for the move back to Solihull by the end of the year, so it’s not as if we will have to put up with it for long. In fact we might all be together again for Christmas.’

Peggy had sipped her tea to give herself time to think. At least a dozen questions were hammering away inside her head, all looking for answers, but how could she put them without revealing that this was all news to her?

She set her cup aside. ‘I’m afraid we don’t hear much down here about what is going on back at the old firm,’ she said, choosing her words carefully. ‘What, exactly, is John’s title, now?’ Her recollection of John Strickland was of a rather plodding junior manager, but from the way Billie was talking, it sounded as if he had finally started up the corporate ladder.

‘Special Projects Manager,’ Billie told her with a touch of smugness. ‘There were three others in the running, but they chose John, and Henry as good as told him that he could be in line for VP in two or three years if everything goes smoothly with this move. So, perhaps it’s a good thing I bumped into you this afternoon, because I want John to succeed down here, and I know I can count on you to do everything you can to help him. He will be bringing in his own office staff, of course, but I’m sure that you and he will be working very closely together.’