Night Fall (12 page)

‘Moreland was a fairly big man,' said Paget thoughtfully, ‘so perhaps more than one person is involved in these killings. It wouldn't be easy to manhandle a man his size to the top of the quarry.'

‘Starkie has a theory about that,' Ormside said. ‘He said he noticed a chipped tooth and bruising around Moreland's mouth, and he thinks that something like a bottle was forced into his mouth at some point. He went back to his notes on Billy Travis and found similar marks around his mouth, so he thinks it's possible they were forced to drink something laced with Rohypnol or GHB, the date-rape drugs of choice these days. He says it would make the victim drowsy and compliant and much easier to handle, and it disappears within twenty-four hours, so it would be gone by the time tox got around to it in both cases.'

Paget looked sceptical. ‘That suggests the killer has access to a prescription drug that's tightly regulated,' he said, ‘so . . .' He stopped when he saw Ormside shaking his head.

‘Starkie tells me it's not hard to get. He says there are bars in town where you can get a drink spiked for anywhere from thirty to fifty quid a pop.' He made a face. ‘Sounds like the doc's done his homework. Makes you wonder where he spends his time off, doesn't it?'

‘It does,' Paget agreed. ‘I've been wondering how the killer managed to get his victims from where they were first attacked to where they were killed, because even Travis, small as he was, would be hard to handle as a dead weight. Is there anything else?'

‘Not really. Moreland was in good health. The complete toxicology report won't be along for a day or two, but Starkie says there were no obvious signs of alcohol or substance abuse. There were marks on his ankles, suggesting they'd been tied at one point, probably with the same sort of plastic ties that were used on his wrists. The ties and duct tape were the same as the ones used on Travis, but there was one difference. At some point, Moreland had been blindfolded, using duct tape. Bits of thread and glue were found sticking to the eyelids, and hair from the eyebrows had been pulled away when it was ripped off.'

Paget winced at the image it conjured up. ‘What about the capital A? Did he have anything to say about that?'

‘Sharp blade, same as Travis. Starkie's best guess is a razor blade or box cutter. Box cutter would be easier to handle.' Ormside set the report aside. ‘We've checked with Moreland's bank,' he said. ‘He and his wife have joint accounts. No large sums in or out. No overdrafts. The house is mortgaged, and they've still got a year and a half to go on payments on the car, but both payments are well within their means. Mrs Moreland has a small savings account of her own, and Moreland had life insurance, but the amount isn't anything out of the ordinary. It'll help the wife and kids out for a short while, but hardly enough to kill for.'

‘And that's about it,' he concluded as he rose from his chair to refill his mug with coffee. ‘Tregalles is out talking to the rest of the staff at SuperFair, and he and Forsythe will be talking to friends of the Morelands later on.' He took a sip of coffee and grimaced when it burned his tongue. ‘I don't understand it,' he said, frowning. ‘There has to be something behind this ritual he goes through. The A's the clue, but what the hell does it mean?'

‘If we knew that, Len,' said Paget, ‘we wouldn't be having this conversation. In the meantime, we'll do what we always do. Keep digging until we find something.'

PC Gavin Whitelaw opened his eyes and squinted against the light as he tried to focus on the clock. Twenty past ten, for God's sake? He threw off the covers and raised himself on one elbow. His head ached and his mouth tasted foul. He should never have finished off that bottle of Portuguese plonk last night. Thank God it was his day off.

He reached for a cigarette, lit it and sucked in a lungful of smoke and immediately started to cough. He'd been trying to quit for months, ever since the divorce, but the best he'd managed so far was two days. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and hung his head while he continued to cough. It just wasn't worth it; he
had
to quit smoking. Apart from anything else, he couldn't afford it.

Whitelaw looked around the room. The place was a mess. Clothes were on the floor; the remains of his pizza were still in the box on the table, together with the empty wine bottle and assorted dirty knives, forks, and mugs and plates. He'd had every intention of cleaning up last night, but then he'd sat down and got to thinking . . . and drinking. At least he'd remembered to hang his uniform on the hook behind the door. It might need a bit of a press, but it looked clean enough. He got to his feet, stuck the cigarette in his mouth, and made his way to the tiny bathroom, then stood there, hands on the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror. Red eyes, pasty face . . . and there was something stuck between his two front teeth. He stuck out his tongue and shuddered. ‘You look like the bloody wrath of God!' he told his image.

He stood up and tossed the half-smoked cigarette into the toilet. He knew there was something he had to do, today, but what the hell was it . . .?

Tregalles and Molly had spent Monday evening talking to friends of the Morelands, but, as they told Ormside next morning, everyone agreed that the Morelands were nice, ordinary people, and no one could think of a reason why Dennis Moreland had been killed.

‘The same applies to Billy Travis,' Ormside said dourly, ‘so we're no further ahead, are we?'

‘I thought the killing of Billy Travis had to be a mistake,' Tregalles said, ‘but now, with this second one, I don't think so. I mean, no one would mistake Travis for Moreland, even in the dark, so we have to assume the killer got the right man each time. The question is:
why
were they killed?'

‘We know the
question
,' Ormside said irritably. ‘What we need are answers, and I'm damned if I know where else to look. So, unless you have any other leads to follow, I could use some help around here. There was a free-for-all outside a pub last night that put three people in hospital – two with knife wounds, one with concussion. Several with minor injuries – and all of them are women. So I've got two people tied up on that one. Also, the copper thieves have struck again. They cut out fifty feet of phone cable last night, leaving two villages and God knows how many farmhouses without a landline, so I've got two more out there. Fowler's on a course and Sorenson's on stress leave, and I've got work piling up on my desk, so I could use some help here. All right?'

Dressed in faded jeans and a heavy jacket as protection against a sudden drop in temperature and a biting wind, Gavin Whitelaw paused to look in the window of Bridge Street Motors. Next year's models were already on display, but despite the hype on TV, they looked much the same as last year's to him. Not that he could afford any of them anyway after the lawyers were finished with him.

He pushed the glass door open and stepped inside. Waving off the salesman who came forward to greet him, he was making his way towards the back of the showroom, when a woman came out of one of the offices and almost ran into him.

‘Sorry,' she said as she stepped back, then said, ‘Gavin . . .? Good heavens, I hardly recognized you. How are you? Sorry to hear about the divorce. Is Bronwyn and . . . Sorry, I don't remember your daughter's name . . .'

‘Megan. She and her mother have gone back to Cardiff,' he said stiffly. ‘So, how are you, Anita?'

‘Fine,' she said, smiling brightly as if to prove it. She certainly looked fine. In fact she looked better than fine to Gavin Whitelaw. A natural blonde, blue eyes, and a great figure. He toyed briefly with the images inside his head before he said, ‘How's Graham?' Graham was her husband.

‘All right as far as I know,' she said with a shrug bordering on the dismissive. ‘He's so busy these days I hardly ever see him. The last time I heard from him he was in Glasgow. We must get together sometime when he's home.'

She turned on the smile again. Anita Chapman had beautiful teeth, but he only had to look at her eyes to know she didn't mean it. It was just something you said when you met someone you hadn't seen for a while, and Whitelaw never had had anything in common with Graham. Funny bloke. Small, very dark skin. Going bald on top. English father, Sri Lankan mother. He was a franchise specialist, at least that was the way he described himself. His job was to guide new licencees through the intricacies of setting up a franchise, teaching them how to deal with banks and lawyers and accountants, and he was hardly ever home. Which was probably just as well, because, as almost everybody knew, Anita and Mike Fulbright had been having it off for years.

‘Right,' he said mechanically. ‘I'd like that. But right now I'd like to see Mike. Is he in?' He nodded in the direction of the closed door with the word
Manager
on it.

She nodded. ‘Here to buy a new car, are you, now you're single again? I'm sure he can give you a good deal. Come on, I'll tell him you're here.'

Anita walked ahead of him to the door, knocked perfunctorily, then walked in. ‘Someone here to see you, Mike,' she said breezily. She stepped aside to let Whitelaw pass, then stepped out and closed the door behind her.

Even sitting behind the desk Mike Fulbright looked big. Heavy set, broad-shouldered, he seemed almost too big for his chair. Not quite as handsome as he'd once been, but he was still a youthful looking man with rugged features beneath a mass of curly black hair. He wore a white shirt, collar open, and sleeves rolled up to reveal thick, muscular arms.

A big man and star performer on the local rugby team, the Broadminster Grinders.

‘Gavin!' he said heartily, as he got to his feet. ‘Good to see you.' He extended his hand. Whitelaw's own hand was a good size, but it was lost in Fulbright's iron grip. ‘Here, take a look at these. Just had them printed up. Gold lettering. Present to myself for the best sales quarter in two years. Neat, eh? What do you think?' He took a handful of business cards from his pocket and thrust them at Whitelaw.

‘Yeah, great, Mike,' Whitelaw said with barely a glance at them. ‘But I didn't come to look at your bloody cards. We have to talk.'

Fulbright stepped back, frowning. ‘You look upset,' he said, ‘but if that's what you want, we'll talk. But take one of these anyway. Keep us in mind.' He peeled off one of the cards and shoved it into Whitelaw's coat pocket, then moved back behind his desk. ‘So, sit yourself down, Gavin, and get whatever it is off your chest.'

‘Everything all right, love?' Audrey asked. ‘You've been a bit quiet since you came in. Something to do with these murders, is it?' Audrey was fishing. She liked to hear about what was going on at work, but with the children growing up and quick to prick up their ears, John had become more cautious about talking about work when they were around. But now, Olivia was at Guides and Brian was upstairs doing his homework, so the two of them were alone.

‘No. At least not directly,' he said. ‘Superintendent Pierce called me into her office this afternoon and asked me a lot of questions.'

‘What sort of questions?

He frowned as if finding it hard to remember. ‘It was more like a chat at first. She asked me how I liked the job, and we talked about things in general, and we talked about the murders. But then she started asking what my goals were. Where did I see myself in the service a year from now, five years from now, then ten? Then she asked me if I was finding enough study time for OSPRE.'

‘Did she, now?' Audrey recognized the acronym for the Objective Structured Performance-Related Examination, which Paget had encouraged John to take if he wanted to move up to the rank of inspector. John had ordered the software, but it was still sitting next to the computer unopened. Audrey tried to keep her voice as neutral as possible as she said, ‘What did you tell her?'

Tregalles shot her a guilty glance. ‘I lied,' he confessed. ‘I told her it was hard, considering the workload and family and all, but I was managing.'

‘What did she say to that?'

‘She said she understood how hard it could be, but I had a good record and DCI Paget had said I had good potential, and she was sure I wouldn't regret the hard work I was putting into my studies.'

Audrey remained silent, not quite sure what to say, or whether to say anything at all. In the end, it was Tregalles who spoke. ‘I think I've screwed myself, love,' he said. ‘I'm going to have to get started on that programme now whether I like it or not.'

Audrey leaned over and patted him on the knee. ‘I'll help,' she said. ‘We'll do it together. It'll be all right. You'll see. Maybe they'll let me sit the exam as well and we can both be inspectors.'

P
aget waited for Fiona McRae to catch up with him as he left his car on Wednesday morning, and they crossed the car park together. It was blustery and spitting with rain, and Fiona was holding a folded newspaper over her head. ‘My hair all goes to frizz and I won't be able to do anything with it if it gets wet,' she confided.

‘Why not a rain hat or umbrella then?' Paget suggested.

Fiona shook her head. ‘Hats squash my hair, and I can't stand umbrellas. Fiddly things, and you can poke someone's eye out with them if you're not careful.'

‘Doesn't do much for your morning newspaper, though, does it?'

‘I've read all I want to read at breakfast,' she said. ‘I only bring it with me for the crossword at lunchtime.'

They reached the front door and went inside. ‘So, how do you like your new boss?' he asked casually as they made their way up the stairs.

Fiona cast him a sidelong glance, hesitating before she answered. ‘I like her,' she said. Then, hastily, ‘Not that I wouldn't have preferred to be working for you, Mr Paget, but I think you know that, don't you? But, like you, I've had to accept it, and we could have done a lot worse, couldn't we? She knows what she wants and she listens and asks my opinion. And she's not afraid of Mr Brock.' She smiled as if at some secret joke. ‘To tell you the truth, I think he might be a little bit afraid of her.'