Night Fall (11 page)

‘Pretty much,' he told her. ‘But it looks to me as if you've taken on Fiona's job as well.'

‘It's just that I feel I have to involve myself in everything, at least until I know what's going on,' she said. ‘And I'm certainly not trying to take over Fiona's job. In fact it's almost the other way round. She has things so organized I almost feel redundant. I don't know what I would do without her. She's very efficient.'

‘Believe me, I know,' he said. ‘So you'll be keeping her on, then?'

‘Absolutely. I knew she was worried about her job, but I didn't want to make any decisions until I'd had a chance to assess her work. I'm also aware she would have preferred to be working for you rather than me, so we had a chat about that at the end of last week to clear the air, and I think we have.'

‘Good. I'm glad,' he said, and was about to say more, but stopped short. He was tired, it was the end of the day and he'd almost allowed himself to slip into the comfortable relationship he'd once enjoyed with Amanda. Annoyed with himself, his tone changed as he said, ‘You wanted a progress report on the Moreland killing,' and proceeded to bring Amanda up to date in short, clipped sentences.

‘The MO's the same,' he concluded, ‘and while we haven't been able to come up with a motive in the Travis case, I'm hoping we can find a link between Travis and Moreland. But we also have to consider the possibility that there may not be a connection, and the killer is choosing his victims at random, picking them off dark streets whenever he gets the chance. It's that damned letter A that bothers me. It's clearly a message, but is he trying to tell us something, or is it meant for other potential victims?'

Paget spread his hands. ‘I know that's not what you want to hear, and I'm sorry, but it's the best I have to offer at the moment.' He rose to his feet. ‘Was there anything else?'

‘For the moment, no,' Amanda said crisply. The abrupt change in Neil's tone and body language had not gone unnoticed, but she decided not to comment on it. ‘But I want to be informed immediately if there are any developments. Night or day.'

‘Of course,' he said as he made for the door.

Although there was no doubt in anyone's mind that the latest victim was Dennis Moreland, it had to be confirmed, so it was Molly who was given the task of picking up Joan Moreland and taking her to the mortuary on Sunday morning. ‘I could send someone else,' Ormside told her before she'd left for home on Saturday, ‘but she knows you, Molly, and I'm sure it's hard enough for the woman as it is.'

Which was why Molly now found herself escorting Joan Moreland through the lower corridors of the hospital to what was known as ‘the viewing room'.

Starkie had done his best to clean him up, but there was only so much he could do. The right side of Moreland's face and skull had been crushed when he'd fallen some sixty feet onto the jagged rocks, and that side of the head was bandaged, while a small flesh-coloured patch covered the letter on the forehead. But enough of the face had to be exposed for formal identification, and there was little that could be done with Moreland's right eye, which had been pushed down and sideways into the side of his nose. The result was a grotesque distortion of his features, and even though Molly had been warned about what to expect, and had tried to prepare Joan, it still came as a shock to both of them when the sheet was lifted.

It was too much for Joan. She gave one long, agonizing gasp, and almost ran from the room. Oddly, though, she did not cry. Eyes closed tightly as if to wipe the scene from memory, she allowed Molly to guide her out of the building and into the car.

Joan sat slumped in the passenger's seat, eyes closed, head resting against the window. Molly waited, wishing she didn't have to ask the question, but it had to be asked and she couldn't put it off any longer. ‘I know how hard this is for you,' she said quietly, ‘but I have to ask you this question: was that your husband, Dennis Moreland, whom you saw just now?'

Joan lifted her head to stare at Molly. ‘Why?' she asked hoarsely. ‘For God's sake, why, Molly? Why would someone do this to him? He was a good man; he was . . .' Her hands fluttered in a gesture of helplessness. ‘The kids . . . What am I going to do?' Suddenly it was all too much and tears streamed down her face.

Joan was still sobbing quietly when Molly started the car and drove slowly out of the gates into Abbey Road, blinking hard to keep her own tears in check. Technically, Joan hadn't answered the question, so, according to the rules governing the identification of the deceased, it should be asked again and the answer recorded. But, rules or not, there was no way that Molly could bring herself to ask that question again. It would appear as a ‘Yes' in her notebook.

Later that day, a funeral service was held in All Saints church for Billy Travis. Billy had been a long-time member of the choir there, and George Travis was pleased to see that every member of the choir was present. But it was a big church and most of the pews were empty. Ted Grayson was there with half a dozen members from the camera club, and George recognized a smattering of friends and acquaintances who lived or worked near the shop. It was a disappointing turnout, but then Billy had always kept to himself. Trudy Mason stood at George's side, and they both wept openly when the last hymn was sung. Gordon Mason wasn't there.

Paget sat at the back and was one of the first to leave. He moved a discreet distance away, watching as people filed out of the church. A small, sandy-haired man dressed in dark suit and tie followed him out and stood at the edge of the path as if waiting for someone. His hands were clasped loosely in front of him and he held a small leather case about the size of a prayer book. He remained there until the last person had gone, then made his way down the path to his car. He nodded to Paget as he went by. He was one of Charlie Dobbs' SOCO team, borrowed by Paget for the occasion, and there would be a video clip and a batch of still photographs of everyone who had attended the funeral on Ormside's desk on Monday morning.

T
he Minster repertory theatre, with seating for three hundred and twenty-two people and eight spaces for wheelchairs, was a funny old building that had been many things in the past, including an armoury around the time of the Boer War. Parking was a problem for patrons, but at eleven o'clock on Monday morning, Molly had no trouble.

She'd been to a few plays here, and enjoyed them. The theatre might be small, but it attracted some very good actors, and productions were always well attended. But this morning she had an appointment with a man by the name of Jamie Lester, stage manager, lighting director, scene shifter and general dogsbody, according to his own description of his position there.

He was a small, wiry man of about forty, and Molly found him in a tiny office behind the stage. ‘I couldn't believe what I was reading in the paper this morning,' he told her once they were seated. ‘I mean, Dennis of all people. Any idea why?'

‘That's what we're trying to find out,' Molly told him. ‘Do you have any idea yourself?'

‘Me? God, no. Everybody around here liked him, and we appreciated all the time he put in. Pity, too, because he was really looking forward to being in
HMS Pinafore
.'

‘You're saying he was an actor? I thought he just worked behind the scenes.'

Lester shook his head. ‘He wasn't,' he said, ‘but he had a good voice, so whenever we had a spot in the chorus where he could stay in the background, I'd pop him in, and he enjoyed that. And, like I said, he was really looking forward to
Pinafore.
'

‘When did you see him last?'

Lester thought. ‘Must have been last Wednesday,' he said. ‘Yes, that's right, it was, and he would have been coming in again tomorrow to work on the scenery.'

‘That would be the night before he disappeared,' said Molly. ‘How was he then? Did he appear to be worried or preoccupied?'

‘Same as usual,' Lester said. ‘Mind you, we were both busy, so I didn't see that much of him, but he seemed all right.'

‘Do you remember what time he left here?'

‘Ten or thereabouts. He always tried to leave by then because he had to be up early in his job.'

‘Was there anyone in particular he was working with that night?'

‘Yes, Mary. Mary Baker. She's another volunteer. They often work together. They make a good team.'

‘Where can I find her?'

‘I can give you her address. She lives in Cherwell Street, not five minutes from here.' He took a card from his pocket and scribbled Mary Baker's address and phone number on the back of it.

Molly thanked him and tucked it away in the side pocket of her handbag. ‘Just one more thing before I go,' she said. ‘Do you know a Billy Travis?'

‘Billy?' Lester looked startled. ‘Bloody hell,' he breathed, ‘I never thought. He was killed a couple of weeks ago as well, wasn't he? Yes, I knew Billy. He used to do our programmes and the stills for our shows. Yeah, and that reminds me,' he continued softly, ‘I'll have to look for someone else to do them, won't I? I doubt if his dad'll be prepared to take them on. Can't move about the way he used to.'

‘Did you know Billy well?'

Lester shrugged. ‘Can't say I knew him all that well,' he said. ‘Came and went. Did his job, didn't talk much.'

‘Did he and Dennis ever meet here, talk to each other, perhaps?'

‘I doubt it. Billy used to come round in the mornings like you're doing now, and Dennis was only here in the evenings, and the odd Saturday, of course.' He paused, frowning. ‘Although, come to think of it, Billy did come round a few times in the evening to get some shots of the show and the actors, so I suppose they could have met then. Not that I ever saw them together.'

‘When was the last time you saw Billy?'

Jamie Lester pursed his lips. ‘Must be about four or five weeks ago,' he said. ‘We talked about some changes in the programme format, but that was about it. And before you ask, he was the same as he always was as far as I could tell. You think they were both killed by the same person?'

‘That's still under investigation,' Molly told him as she slipped the strap of her handbag over her shoulder and stood up. ‘Is there anyone else here who knew Dennis Moreland?'

He shook his head. ‘Not now, but there will be a few here tomorrow night. I don't know if they'll be much help, but you're welcome to come by and talk to them if you like.'

‘I may do that,' Molly told him, ‘and thank you very much for your time.'

Mary Baker came to the door wearing an apron over her ample body and a turban around her hair. Fifty or more, thought Molly, guessing at Mary's age. Certainly not a contender as the ‘other woman', if there was such a thing in Dennis Moreland's life.

‘I'm in the middle of doing a wash,' she told Molly as she led the way into the kitchen where a washing machine was thumping away in the corner. ‘Poor thing's on its last legs, but it does not do a bad job if you keep your eye on it. Like a cuppa, would you?' Without waiting for an answer, Mary filled the electric kettle and plugged it in. ‘So, how can I help you? Jamie phoned not five minutes ago to say you might be round. I couldn't believe it when he told me about Dennis. I haven't seen the papers this morning, so it came as a real shock, I can tell you. You are sure it's him, I suppose?'

‘I'm afraid so,' said Molly. ‘I believe you and he used to work together at the theatre?'

‘That's right, love, we did. Lovely lad, he was. Do anything for you. Nice to work with someone like that. I shall miss him.'

‘You and he were working together last week,' said Molly. ‘Last Wednesday, I believe? Did you notice anything different about him? Did he seem worried or bothered about anything?'

Mary shook her head. ‘Same as always, he was. In fact he was in good spirits. We were painting one of the sets. Worked from about seven till ten. He was a butcher you know, so he had to be up early and he always left about ten to get to bed. I used to tease him about having to get his beauty sleep.'

‘Did he ever talk to you about any trouble at work, at home, or anywhere for that matter?'

‘Used to go on about his boss. He didn't like him much. He used to talk about Joan and the kids; real proud of his kids, he was, and Joan, of course.'

The kettle boiled and Mary made tea. She insisted that Molly try her shortbread, but it soon became clear that she could add nothing to what they already knew. And when Molly mentioned Billy Travis, Mary looked blank. ‘The photographer who does the theatre programmes and the glossy stills,' Molly prompted.

‘I may have seen him about, but I don't remember the name,' she said. ‘Sorry, love. Here, hang on a minute and I'll wrap up a bit of that shortbread. You can take it home and have it with your tea.'

‘Just received the results of the autopsy on Moreland,' Ormside told Paget when he came into the incident room shortly after lunch. ‘The summary, anyway; the detailed report won't be available until tomorrow, but it's pretty much what we expected.'

‘Was he alive or dead when he went over the edge?' asked Paget.

‘Starkie believes he was alive. Whether he was conscious or not, he doesn't know, but it was the fall that killed him. A lot of broken bones and internal injuries from the fall. The side of his skull was crushed when he fell, but there was one injury to the back of the head that occurred twenty-four to forty-eight hours before he died. It was a single blow with a blunt instrument such as a pipe or truncheon or something along those lines. Not enough to kill, but it would have knocked him out, and there were scrapes and bruises on his elbows and shins that occurred about the same time. Starkie thinks they may have been caused when Moreland was dragged, either along the ground, or possibly when he was bundled into the boot of a car or the back of a van.'