Night Fall (13 page)

They paused when they reached the landing on Paget's floor; Fiona still had one more to go, but she stopped and put out her hand to touch Paget's arm in a conciliatory gesture. ‘I really was sorry when you didn't get the job,' she said softly, then turned quickly as if embarrassed, and set off up the remaining flight of stairs.

Paget paused to watch her go. He was fond of Fiona; she had been a great help to him when he was filling in for Alcott, and he was pleased to hear that things were going smoothly for her and she was happy to be working with Amanda. He wished he could feel the same, but then Fiona didn't know what Amanda Pierce was capable of . . . and he hoped she never had cause to find out.

Molly Forsythe finished entering the latest information into the computer and punched
Print
. One more piece of paper to add to the Moreland file. One more line on the whiteboard, but no further ahead. Another hour or so of wasted time? Or would there be something buried in there that they couldn't see now, but would prove useful later on?

Molly stared blankly at the two files on her desk. Billy Travis and Dennis Moreland. She'd been back and forth between the two, searching for a connection, but there was nothing. The two men had lived at opposite ends of the town. They didn't belong to the same clubs; they didn't frequent the same pubs; they didn't go to the same church.

The words were beginning to blur, and she found herself thinking about the e-mail she'd received from David last evening. She'd read it so many times last night and again this morning before coming to work that she knew it by heart.

Dear Molly,

Sitting here writing to you late at night, I keep remembering how much I enjoyed our time together, and I do so wish it could have been longer. I was looking forward to settling down in Broadminster, but it seems that fate has intervened at a most inopportune moment, and I must remain here for a while longer.

Lijuan's grandmother is feeling better and she's gone back to work. She's been with the Hongkong Electric Company for almost thirty years, and she says it keeps her from thinking about what happened to Meilan. But the loss of her only daughter has hit her very hard indeed, so the last thing she wants to hear is any talk about taking her granddaughter away as well. And, as you said, Molly, it is much too early to make any major decisions regarding Lijuan's future, or, for that matter, my own as well, so I will have to be patient and give it time. Meanwhile, please keep writing, Molly; I do so look forward to your e-mails.

Affectionately, David

Much too early
. . .
my own as well?
What did that mean, Molly wondered. Was he talking a month . . . six months . . . a year? Would he come back at all, for that matter? In her heart, Molly knew David had no choice, but that didn't make things any easier. Lying in bed last night, the thought had flashed through her mind that she might be able to get a job with the police in Hong Kong, and she'd fantasized about that for some time before more practical thoughts nudged their way in, and she told herself not to be so foolish. She knew how she felt about David, but she still didn't know how he felt about her. He'd signed off with the word ‘affectionately', but what did that
really
mean? She'd gone to the old thesaurus that had belonged to her father to look it up. There were lots of synonyms to choose from: adoringly, lovingly, devotedly, fondly, tenderly, passionately . . . and several related terms: infatuation, crush, and more.

So which one was in his mind when he'd chosen that particular word? She'd still been thinking about that when she dropped off to sleep and dreamt about . . . work.

‘This is getting to be a habit,' Grace observed that evening when Paget arrived home before six. ‘Quiet day, was it?'

‘Too quiet,' Paget told her. ‘We're not getting anywhere with either murder. Both victims seem to have led very ordinary, blameless lives. How about you?'

Grace shook her head. ‘Nothing to report, either, I'm afraid. I spent most of the day looking at everything on the Morelands' computer, but I didn't find anything. He did all his banking on line, as did she, but it was all very simple and straightforward. They have no major debts, other than the mortgage on the house and the car, and they've never missed a payment. He has stacks of pictures and videos on disks and flash drives, but they were all taken by him or his wife. None of them were taken by Travis. And about ninety-nine per cent of them were of the kids: Christmas, birthdays, holidays, and everyday things from the time they were born till about a week before his death. They look like nice kids, but I was getting pretty tired of them by the end of the day. We've been through the house from stem to stern, but we found nothing of interest there either. The same as we did with the Travis household, so I'm afraid we're not much help to you.'

They had talked of other things during dinner, but it was clear that something was preying on Paget's mind, something he didn't seem anxious to discuss. ‘So what's the problem, Neil?' Grace asked when everything was cleared away. ‘I know something's bothering you, so why don't you tell me what it is instead of bottling it up inside?'

He shook his head. ‘It's not something you can do anything about,' he said. ‘It's just that I feel there should be something more I can do to move this investigation along. Everybody's working hard, but we're not getting anywhere. We have no suspects; we have no motive. In fact we have nothing, and that's what I have to tell Amanda Pierce at the briefing tomorrow morning.' He made a face. ‘It's not that I have any love for the woman, but she's still my boss, and I can't help feeling I've let her down.'

‘Yet you feel you've done everything you can?'

‘Yes, I do, but—'

‘Would you be feeling the same if it was Alcott you were briefing tomorrow morning?'

‘Probably, but that's different. He wouldn't have been happy, but he would have understood.'

‘You told me that Amanda Pierce has come up through the ranks, so she should know how difficult it can be. Why should it be any different when you're talking to her?'

He grimaced. ‘It just is,' he said stubbornly.

‘Only because it's Amanda Pierce,' she countered, ‘and much as you say you dislike her, you want to impress her, don't you? You'd like to walk into her office and say, “There, it's solved. We have the killer. See how good I am at my job!” That would be nice, wouldn't it, but I've seen what you have to work with, Neil; I've been part of it and I'm just as frustrated as you are. You can't manufacture motives or suspects or evidence. All you can do is make sure you've done all you can, then be patient and wait for a break or for someone to come forward. I know it's hard, but we've all been there before, and I imagine Amanda Pierce has been there as well. So stop torturing yourself. If she's really earned that position, then she'll understand. You're quite right when you say she may not like it, but there's nothing she or anyone else can do about it until you get a break.'

Grace was right, of course, he thought later as they settled down in bed. But he was still trying to think what else he could have done when he went to sleep.

Slouched in a kitchen chair, Gavin Whitelaw shook the last few drops of beer out of the can into his mouth before setting it aside with the others. He stabbed at the remote and watched the picture on the screen fade to black. Hell of a way to spend the evening, but that was how it had been since the divorce. Bronwyn and their daughter, Megan, were well settled in Bronwyn's parents' house in Cardiff, while he was stuck here in the Freemont hotel in an area best known for its bars, drugs and prostitutes, until he could clear some of his debts and find a decent place to live.

Everybody in the place knew who he was; they knew he was a copper but they didn't see him as a threat. Thirty-three years old and still a constable, a constable who was divorced, broke and living in this pigsty, he was no better than they were, and they made sure he knew it in their not so subtle ways.

Whitelaw stood up, then grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself. Work in the morning, and he'd better not be late, he reminded himself. He'd had two warnings already, and things could get serious if he was late again.

His vision kept blurring, and he had trouble staying upright. He dreaded the coming of morning and the inevitable headache that would follow him halfway through the day. He knew he shouldn't have drunk so much, but what the hell else was there to do? His stomach growled. He was spending more on cigarettes than food. He smoked and drank because he was hungry, and he was hungry because what little money he had was spent on cigarettes and drink. The thought held his attention briefly as he undressed. He tried to concentrate on it: there was a message in there somewhere, but whatever it was, it would have to wait till morning.

His befuddled mind switched to Mike Fulbright. Fulbright and his fancy office with the leather chairs, and his gold-plated cards. All talk and bullshit. Big smile up front, but there was a vicious streak beneath that smile. Like today.
How you doing, Gavin? Here to buy a new car, are you?
Bastard! Fulbright knew very well that Bronwyn had cleaned him out, and he'd sat there with that smug smile on his face, secretly gloating. ‘Or not so bloody secretly,' Whitelaw muttered as he weaved his way into the bathroom. He and Fulbright were the same age, but there was Mike, sales manager of Bridge Street Motors, and here he was, PC Whitelaw, living in this dump.

Not that Mike had come by it honestly, he told himself. The only reason Mike had that job was because he played rugby for the Broadminster Grinders. Built like a bull, he'd earned the reputation of being the dirtiest bastard on the team, but the Grinders were winners, and Bridge Street Motors was one of their major sponsors. Which was why Mike had made his way up the ladder so fast. It had bugger all to do with talent. Whitelaw's lip curled in contempt as he peered into the mirror. He pulled his lips back to examine his teeth. He couldn't get his eyes to focus properly, but his teeth looked all right; they'd do till morning. He managed to relieve himself without going too far off course before making his way to bed. The walls of the room seemed to be leaning inwards as he lay back. He closed his eyes, waiting for the room to right itself, and brought his thoughts to bear once more on Mike Fulbright. Mike had tried to persuade him that what had happened was pure coincidence, but Gavin Whitelaw wasn't buying it. Travis and Moreland, both killed in the same way within days of each other? That
might
have been a coincidence. But the letter A carved on their forehead . . .?
That
was no coincidence. So why would Mike insist there was nothing to worry about? Whitelaw struggled to bring his thoughts to bear on the question.

Unless
. . .

The thought, blurred and hazy, hovered at the edge of his mind. The more he tried to grasp it, the more elusive it became, but he knew instinctively that it wasn't good. Not good at all, he told himself as he pulled the bedclothes up under his chin and rolled onto his side. Tomorrow, he promised himself. He was too tired to work it out now, and things would be clearer in the morning. He'd give it some serious thought tomorrow . . .

He came awake slowly, not recognizing what had awakened him until the third or fourth ring. He groaned and buried his head in the pillow. Wrong number, or somebody playing silly buggers. They'd get fed up and hang up if he ignored them.

But the phone continued to ring. Muttering, Whitelaw crawled out of bed, snatched up the phone and said, ‘Yeah?'

‘PC Whitelaw?' A man's voice.

‘Yeah, whadyawant?'

‘This is Tony. I'm a roofer and I'm on your roof right now trying to stop a leak dripping into the room above yours, but the reason I'm calling is because of what I've found up here. It looks to me like someone's stashed their drugs in a hiding place up here. I called the station, but they told me to give you a call, since you're living here. They want you to come up and take charge of them.'

‘Who told you that?' He was coming awake now, but his head was throbbing and his eyes felt as if they were on fire, and the flashing neon sign on the night club across the street wasn't helping.

‘Your mates at the cop shop. I rang them as soon as I found this, but they said they had a bit of a flap going on and they couldn't spare anyone, and since you lived in the building they said to ring you, and they gave me your number.'

‘They shouldn't be giving out my number.' Whitelaw sat down heavily. ‘Who did you talk to?'

‘I don't know,' the man snapped. ‘He didn't give me his bloody name. For Christ's sake, man, here I am trying to fix your bloody roof
and
be a good citizen and you're nattering on about phone numbers. Do you want these sodding drugs or not?'

‘You're sure it's drugs?'

‘Well, it's all in little white packages like I've seen on TV, and I don't think it's sugar. There must be ten pounds or more of the stuff.'

Ten pounds! Jesus! Whitelaw squinted at the window. It was raining steadily. ‘Can't you bring it down here?'

‘And have my prints all over it? No bloody way, Constable. Besides, I've got a leak to fix before the water comes through
your
ceiling, and it's pissing down up here. So get your coat on and get up here before someone comes to collect this stuff. It's making me nervous.'

‘OK, OK, keep your shirt on,' Whitelaw growled. ‘I'm on my way. How do I get up there?'

The ringing of the phone beside the bed woke Paget. He squinted at the calling number and groaned. Ten minutes to three? This was not going to be good news. He picked up the phone and said, ‘Paget.'

‘We've got another one, boss.' It was Tregalles. ‘Except this time it's one of ours. Remember PC Whitelaw? He was the one out at the Lessington Cut who knew Travis.'