Destruction of Evidence (22 page)

‘Thank you,’ Trevor followed her and Peter closed the door.

‘You’ve visitors, Mrs Williams.’ The carer called out when she reached the top of the stairs. ‘The police. They say it’s important.’

‘About time.’ The patient was even brusquer than the carer.

The carer, who didn’t bother to introduce herself, lowered her voice a fraction but not enough so it wouldn’t carry into all the upstairs rooms. ‘She’s crippled by arthritis. Can’t move an inch without help which is why she never goes downstairs. Social Services said they’d put in a stair lift but the man they sent took one look at the staircase and said it couldn’t be done with the stairs curving the way they do. And because the house is Grade 2 listed it can’t be altered. So she’s trapped upstairs.’ The carer walked along the landing towards the front of the house and opened a door. She showed Trevor and Peter into a large room with two floor-length bay windows that overlooked Main Street. The smell of dried lavender was overwhelming. Half a dozen bowls filled with potpourri were scattered about and, as if they weren’t enough, two vases were filled with the dried distinctive grass shaped flowers.

Both windows were screened by three sets of blinds, one for each window pane, and angled so they didn’t interfere with the view of the pub, the yard behind it and practically the entire street, depending on where you stood.

‘That chair is Mrs Williams’.’ The carer pointed to an electrically operated recliner in prime position in one of the bays. ‘You can sit on the sofa or one of the other chairs. I’ll help my colleague finish off Mrs Williams and bring her in. You can talk to her while we make her breakfast.’

‘Thank you.’ Trevor left his laptop case on the floor beside the sofa and walked into one of the bays.

Peter sat in the reclining chair that the carer had warned them off. He adjusted it until his feet were almost level with his head and looked around. ‘I can see why the locals and the neighbours say nothing goes on in Main Street without Mrs Williams knowing about it. She has a front row view.’ Peter looked at his watch. ‘What time’s the briefing?’

‘I don’t recall setting a time other than “first thing”. I should think about nine o’clock.’

The door opened and the carer they hadn’t met pushed Mrs Williams into the room in a wheelchair.

Trevor walked towards her and held out his hand at chair level. ‘Mrs Williams, I’m Inspector Trevor Joseph?’

‘Haven’t seen you about before. You’re not local, are you?’ she barked suspiciously.

‘We’ve been brought in to assist with the investigation into the fire and murder of the Pitcher family. This is my colleague, Sergeant Peter Collins.’

May’s response was an unintelligible ‘Hummph!’

Peter left the chair as soon as May Williams and the carer entered. But unable to lower the seat quickly enough he had jumped from the seat which was still raised.

Tutt-tutting, the carer reached for the controller and returned the chair to a forward upright position, ready to receive its occupant.

Trevor studied the elderly woman the carer half-helped, half-carried from the wheelchair into the recliner. She was certainly crippled by arthritis; her claw-like hands and swollen joints bore testimony to damage the disease had wrought. But her eyes were bright. A deep, intelligent, inquisitive blue Trevor suspected missed little.

The carer draped a blanket over May’s legs. May tore it away and dropped it to the floor. ‘For pity’s sake, woman, you’ve wrapped me in cashmere trousers and a cashmere sweater. The sun is shining out there. You trying to roast me to death?’

‘Trying to take care of you,’ the carer rebuked her.

Trevor retreated to the sofa. Peter took one of the easy chairs.

‘What do you want for breakfast?’ the carer asked.

‘The usual,’ May bit back.

‘Which is?’

‘How long you been coming here, woman?’

‘It seems like centuries.’

Peter stifled a smile.

‘Coffee, toast and orange juice. And these policemen would like coffee too. And mind you make it a decent strength for once.’ May reached for the controller for the chair and adjusted it. Trevor noticed that if May moved her head slightly to the left she had a better view of the street than she did her TV.

‘No coffee for us, thank you,’ Trevor refused, ‘we’ve had breakfast.’

‘You were up early, Inspector Joseph,’ May commented.

‘We have a great deal of work to get through.’ Trevor waited until the carer left the room and closed the door behind her before poising his pen over his notebook. ‘We’d like to ask you about the call you made to the police on the night the Pitchers’ house burned.’

‘And, I’d like you to tell me why the local police haven’t made the follow-up visit that was promised by Dai Smith, until now?’ May questioned.

‘They’ve all been working flat out on the investigation into the fire and the murders,’ Trevor said in their defence.

‘None of the local officers know what work is. Dai Smith and Paula Rees answered the call that night. And Dai had time enough to go into the Angel with Tim afterwards – and stay there thirty-seven minutes. Drinking when he should have been on duty.’

‘He’d finished his shift.’ Trevor explained.

‘Had he now?’ May challenged. ‘If he’d used common sense he would have stayed with Larry Jones and watched what he got up to when he came round.’

‘No officer can work 24/7, Mrs Williams.’

‘So why did the local force send for you two? None of them up to the job of bringing Alun and his family’s murderer to justice?’

‘It’s a question of manpower,’ Trevor continued diplomatically. ‘Superintendent Moore felt she needed more people to work on the case. Preferably ones who hadn’t known or been acquainted with the Pitchers.’

‘Everyone in Wales is aware of the dangers of over-familiarity, and the corruption it can lead to, Inspector. You in charge or is Reggie?’

Trevor realised May Williams was interrogating him and he needed to redress the balance. ‘Superintendent Moore has total authority over local policing, Mrs Williams.’

‘But you’re in charge of the case?’

‘I’m heading the investigation because I’ve had more experience of serious crimes.’

May adjusted her chair until her feet were raised. ‘I suppose Reggie Moore sent for you because of what I saw.’

‘What you saw, Mrs Williams?’ Trevor reiterated.

‘On the night of the fire.’

The carer knocked before wheeling in a trolley, loaded with coffee pot, sugar bowl, butter dish, marmalade, milk jug, three cups and saucers, a jug of orange juice a glass and a rack of toast.

‘Thank you, you can go now,’ May Williams ordered imperiously.

‘And the washing up? I suppose you’re going to do it.’

‘The midday carer can.’

‘And if she’s short of time?’

‘My cleaner’s in tomorrow, she’s used to clearing the mess you lot leave.’

The carer slammed the door behind her. May leaned forward and reached for the trolley.

‘Allow me.’ Trevor left his seat and pushed the trolley, the same time May grabbed it and pulled it next to her chair.

‘I may be incapacitated, Inspector Joseph but I am capable of buttering my own toast and pouring my own coffee.’

‘I apologise. I’m used to helping my wife. She obviously needs more assistance than you.’ Trevor returned to his seat. ‘You were telling us what you saw on the night of the murder.’

‘You know why I telephoned the station?’

‘You heard a disturbance outside the Angel,’ Trevor prompted.

‘Tim Pryce was frogmarching Larry Jones out of the door of the pub and making a din about it.’

‘They were both shouting?’ Peter asked.

‘No, only Larry Jones.’

‘Your recognised him,’ Trevor said in surprise.

‘I taught in this town for nearly forty years. Larry Jones wasn’t one of my pupils, but his useless, promiscuous grandmother was. And I recognised the boy from his photograph in the local paper. The only time he’s not on the front page is when he’s in prison.’

‘What was Larry Jones shouting?’ Trevor shook his head when May held up the coffee pot.

‘Absolute rubbish,’ May replied.

‘Was he in pain, was Tim Pryce hurting him?’ Peter looked past May and out of the window. A dustcart was moving slowly up the street, the men picking up plastic bags from the side of the road and tossing them into the back.

‘All Tim was doing was steering Larry Jones out of his pub. If he’d given the idiot the thump he deserved, Larry wouldn’t have made enough noise to disturb decent folk at that time of night or murder innocent people later. You have arrested Larry Jones?’

‘He’s in custody for breaking his parole,’ Trevor informed her.

‘And for arson, killing and robbing the Pitchers I hope,’ May retorted. ‘He had antique jewellery that Lee Pitcher had been working on, in his pocket. What more proof do you need?’

‘Who told you he had jewellery in his pocket?’ Trevor asked.

‘As I only see my cleaner and the carers it must have been one of them. Whoever it was, said it’s all over town.’

Trevor caught Peter’s eye. Just as Peter had warned, the people in the town knew more about developments in the case than the officers working on the investigation.

‘So you haven’t arrested him for killing the Pitchers,’ May commented.

‘We only arrived in town yesterday,’ Trevor tried not to make the revelation sound like an apology.

‘I saw. You had lunch in the Angel.’

‘Do you know what we ate?’ There was amusement, not malice in Peter’s question.

‘Judging by the time you were in there I’d say it was a snack not a full roast.’ May’s eyes sparkled with mischief.

‘You’d be right. I had burger and chips.’

‘I had you down as eating unhealthily from the weight you’re carrying.’

‘There’s only ever time for snacking in this job.’

‘Rubbish. You could have ordered a salad.’

‘I could say unkind things about you,’ Peter retorted.

May set down her toast. ‘I was active enough to burn off the calories until this damned arthritis crippled me. Since it set in, my only pleasure comes from watching others. Can you blame me? Look at this room. I hate it. Not the room itself but the wallpaper. My late husband picked it out. He loved roses. I don’t. But I knew why he chose it. It reminded him of his mother’s bedroom. She died when he was small so I let him have his way. Now he’s long gone and I’m left suffering the roses. So if I do spend my days looking out of the window instead of at the walls you’ll have to forgive me.’

‘We’ll forgive you anything you want in exchange for information,’ Peter offered.

‘Well, you’ll get the truth the whole truth and nothing but from me, Sergeant,’ May lectured him in a schoolmistress voice.

‘I’m glad to hear it.’

Trevor sat back and allowed Peter to take control. For the first time since he and Peter had entered the room, May Williams was smiling and she was smiling at Peter. Contrary to his expectations Peter had established a rapport with the old woman. He sympathised with her predicament. He would hate to be trapped within four rose strewn walls. It was little wonder she spent so much time monitoring the doings of her neighbours. He doubted that anyone beside her carers visited her. Loneliness hung heavier than the smell of lavender in the room.

‘So, if you’d thrown Larry Jones out of the Angel, you would have got physical with him?’ Peter teased.

‘The trouble with this country today, is that people who have the tiniest bit of authority are full of PC nonsense. When I was teaching, we were given canes and we used them. Larry Jones should have been given a good thrashing when he was younger. If he had, he would have learned right from wrong and wouldn’t have spent the last ten years in and out of prison. Tim Pryce treated the stupid boy as if he were made of porcelain. He and Ken Lloyd lifted him up and carried him under that arch when they should have pushed him into the gutter.’

‘What happened after they left Larry under the arch?’ Peter enquired.

‘Michael Pitcher drove past with his girlfriend Alison. He stopped and chatted to Ken and Tim for a couple of minutes. One of my carers told me Michael’s been spending his nights with Alison at her house while her parents are away. In my day they would have been the talk of the county.’

‘Why?’ Peter was mystified.

‘Not a wedding ring in sight and as good as living together – at their age. My father would have horsewhipped me…’

‘And after Michael Pitcher and Alison left?’ Peter prompted.

‘Dai Smith and Paula Rees finally turned up. Not that they called to see me, although they have the code for the key box. Dai and Tim waved to me from the pavement. No doubt they think of me as an interfering old busybody. Paula didn’t wave but then she’s a nice girl from a good family. I taught her father thirty-five years ago. They talked for a few minutes then Paula drove off in the squad car. Ken walked off with his dog and fishing rod and Dai went into the pub with Tim. As I told you, he came out about thirty-seven minutes later. After Dai left, Tim locked up the pub and put out the lights.’