Night Fall (15 page)

‘It's not as if we don't know who he is,' Ormside pointed out. ‘I mean the man has worked here for something like ten or twelve years.'

‘Still has to be done, though, doesn't it?' Paget said. ‘And speaking of that, I want to talk to everyone he worked with. One of his colleagues hinted to Tregalles that Whitelaw was having money and drinking problems, so let's bring in his mates and his sergeant and find out what they can tell us about him. Including why he was still a PC after that many years on the job.'

The corridors were crawling with uniformed police and plain clothes detectives going from door to door when Molly arrived, but the lone WPC was still there in front of the door to room 319. ‘Thank God,' she said when Molly identified herself and told her she could go. ‘The rotten sods wouldn't even stand in for me when I said I needed to go for a pee. They seem to think it's funny.'

‘Better get going now, then,' said Molly. ‘Wouldn't want you contaminating this nice clean carpet, now would we?'

‘Bloody toilet down the hall's a disgrace anyway,' the girl said. ‘I took a look when I came in.' She shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Any chance I could use the one in here? It's got to be better than the one down there. Besides, it's unisex and you know what some of the men are like, spraying all over the place.'

Molly hesitated. ‘Do you have any gloves?' The WPC shook her head. Molly reached into her bag and took out a pair of latex gloves. ‘Put those on,' she said. ‘It probably doesn't matter, but try not to disturb anything while you're in there. OK?' She unlocked the door, and the girl shot past her and disappeared into the tiny bathroom.

Molly paused to take stock. The room was small. A bed, a table, two wooden chairs and a small padded armchair, a sink, a two-burner stove, an under-the-counter fridge, a shelf, a small chest of drawers, and a painted wardrobe whose door wouldn't close properly.

Molly's nose twitched as she pulled on a second set of gloves. SOCO would be coming in later to do a thorough search, and she'd mentioned that to DCI Paget, but he'd said, ‘Take a look round anyway. Having been involved in the other crime scenes, you might spot something that might not mean anything to them.'

The place smelled of stale beer and smoke. She walked over to the window and tried to lift it, then saw that it had been nailed shut. So much for that idea. Slowly, she began to circle the room.

‘Sarge . . .?' a plaintive voice called from behind the bathroom door. ‘Is there any toilet paper out there?'

Paget closed the file and handed it back to Ormside. ‘Frequently late, questionable sick leave, out of contact on numerous occasions, and still a constable after twelve years on the job?' he said. ‘This man should have been disciplined if not sacked long ago. And he's not the only one,' he continued ominously. ‘Someone above him has been covering for him, and I'd like to know who it is. Talk to some of his colleagues, see what they can tell us about him.' He turned to Tregalles. ‘If Bates is still here, let's have him in first.'

PC Lou Bates was wet and tired, and wanted nothing more than to go home, dry off and get some sleep, so he was pleased when Paget said, ‘I'll try not to keep you any longer than necessary, but we need information about Whitelaw, and I understand you were a friend of his.'

‘I
was
partnered with him for a while, sir,' Bates said carefully. ‘It was while he and his wife were going through the divorce, but I wouldn't say I was a friend.'

‘But you knew him well enough to tell DS Tregalles that the man was in debt and had a problem with drink. Right?'

Bates nodded. ‘I don't want to speak ill of the dead, but he did have a problem with drink, and it got worse after the divorce. And I know he was in debt because he used to talk about it all the time.'

‘What kind of debt? Credit cards? Gambling?'

‘I don't know about the gambling, but I know he was so deep in debt with his cards that they forced him into some sort of payback programme, and he said it was going to take him something like three years to clear what he owed. I believe he was having to pay child support as well.'

‘So what had he been spending it on? Or was it his wife? Did she have expensive tastes?'

Bates shifted around in his chair as if suddenly uncomfortable. ‘Don't know exactly,' he said, but his eyes told another story.

‘I think you do,' Tregalles said, ‘and this is not the time to be holding anything back. Three people have been killed, and this may be our best chance to track the killer down. So I'll ask you again: where was the money going?'

Bates drew a deep breath. ‘Women,' he said. ‘He couldn't stay away from them. Prostitutes mostly.' Bates hesitated. ‘I don't know this for sure,' he said carefully, ‘but from some of the things Whitelaw said, and from phone calls he used to make from the car, I think he was having it off with a married woman as well. In fact, I believe that was what the divorce was all about. Well, that and the debt.'

‘What about the WPCs and our female civilian staff? Did he ever try it on with them?'

Bates shrugged. ‘I don't know about that,' he said, ‘but it wouldn't surprise me if he did. I mean he couldn't seem to help himself. He'd try it on with almost any woman given half a chance. Like when we'd stop a woman driver who was speeding or who'd shot the lights. If they were even halfway good looking, he'd chat them up. Didn't matter if they were married or not.'

‘Did you bring any of this to the attention of your sergeant?'

Bates shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Paget waited, but the man remained silent. It was the old problem: misplaced loyalty. Never squeal on your partner, no matter what he or she may do.

‘What about drugs?' Paget asked. ‘You say he was a drinker, but was he into drugs as well?'

Bates shook his head. ‘No, sir, I'm sure I would have known if he was.' He paused, frowning. ‘Mind you, I can't speak for now. It's been a while since I rode with him.'

‘Just one more question before you go: who would you say was Whitelaw's best friend here at work?'

Bates hesitated, then said, ‘Don't know if there was one, sir. At least not that I know of. Everybody stayed clear of him, because he was always looking to borrow money, and you knew you'd never see it again.'

‘Find anything useful?' Ormside asked when Molly returned to Charter Lane later that morning.

‘Afraid not,' she said. ‘There were no personal papers of any kind. No bank book or a will, in fact nothing much at all. Has anyone searched his locker here?'

‘Tregalles is taking care of that,' Ormside told her, ‘and he'll be going out to the Kingsway Self Storage lockers on Oldfield Road to see what Whitelaw has stored out there. There's a picture in his file, so make copies and show it to George Travis and Trudy Mason and Mrs Moreland, and ask them if they know him or can think of anything the three men had in common.'

‘Right,' said Molly, but she looked as if something was troubling her.

‘Something wrong?' Ormside asked.

‘It's just that I can't understand why Whitelaw would be on the roof in the middle of the night in the pouring rain,' she said. ‘They say there was no sign of a struggle; no sign that there was anyone else in the room. I don't understand it.'

‘I don't either,' Ormside said, ‘but I checked on calls to and from the phone in his room, and he received a call at one forty-eight from a disposable phone. The call lasted two minutes. Twenty-three minutes later, a taxi driver reported a drunk lying in the road, so I think it's a fair assumption that was when he was killed. Somehow the killer managed to persuade Whitelaw to go up to the roof where he probably knocked him unconscious, tied his hands behind his back, gagged him, then carved his initial or whatever it is on his forehead before pushing him off the roof.'

Molly shuddered. ‘I just hope we can catch this maniac before he strikes again,' she said. ‘A photographer, a butcher and a policeman. I just don't see the connection.'

Eileen Calder, solicitor, sat with fingers steepled as she looked at Paget over the top of her half-moon glasses. She was a short, plump woman of about forty. Her fair hair, parted in the middle, hung straight down on either side of her face like side curtains without a valance, and Paget couldn't help wondering if she had ever really looked at the result in a mirror.

‘Murdered?' she said. ‘How terrible.' The words were spoken without the slightest sign of emotion as she rearranged her features into a look of mild regret. ‘I'm sorry to hear that, Chief Inspector, but to answer your question, I did act for Mr Whitelaw during the divorce proceedings earlier this year, but our association was very brief, so there is little I can tell you about the man himself . . . apart from the fact that I didn't like him very much.'

‘Did he leave anything with you? Any papers, his will, anything at all?'

Eileen Calder shook her head. ‘Nothing,' she said firmly. ‘As I said, our association was very brief.'

‘Do you know if he had another solicitor?' Paget took out one of the cards found in Whitelaw's wallet. ‘A Brian Davey?'

‘Brian is or was his wife's solicitor,' Ms Calder said, ‘so I don't think you'll fare any better there, Chief Inspector.'

Paget put the card away. ‘Is there anything you can tell me about Whitelaw or the divorce proceedings themselves? What, for example, were the reasons for the divorce?'

Eileen Calder thought about that for a moment. ‘I suppose, since it's in the public record, it can't hurt to tell you,' she said. ‘It was Mrs Whitelaw who sued for divorce and the grounds cited covered quite a wide spectrum. Neglect, infidelity, adultery, physical and mental abuse and so on. In short, Chief Inspector, your policeman was a drinker and a womanizer who abused his wife. Wisely, Mr Whitelaw decided not to contest the allegations, partly because his wife had more than enough evidence to support her claims, and partly because he wanted to keep as low a profile as possible, because he felt it could jeopardize his position in the police force if it became known. And then there was the matter of costs. His biggest asset was his car after the house was sold, and I believe he had to sell that to cover them.' The corners of her mouth turned down. ‘Even then it wasn't enough, and now he's dead, I suppose I can forget about what he owes me. Not that I had much hope before, but still . . .'

‘Was there anything in your dealings with him that struck you as odd or strange?'

The woman frowned. ‘I'm not sure I know what it is you're after,' she said. ‘Strange in what way?'

Paget shook his head. ‘To be honest, I don't know myself,' he said, ‘but the man was murdered in a particularly brutal way, and I'm wondering if he ever mentioned any threats or anything like that.'

‘No. Our meetings were very brief. There was no time for chit-chat. He was always in a hurry, partly, I suspect, to minimize his costs.'

‘You mentioned physical and mental cruelty,' Paget said. ‘Did you ever get the feeling that his wife might have wanted to harm him in return?'

‘I think she was just glad to see the back of him,' the solicitor said. ‘She moved away, you know. Brian Davey told me she'd moved to Cardiff to live with her parents. No doubt he could give you her address if you need to contact her. In fact I can ring him if you like.'

Paget got to his feet and shook his head. ‘Thanks, but that won't be necessary,' he said. ‘I'm on my way to see him now.'

‘Get anywhere with the lawyers?' Ormside asked when Paget returned to Charter Lane.

‘Afraid not,' Paget said. ‘Have you come up with anything?'

‘According to his file, Whitelaw didn't notify anyone formally that he was divorced, and his ex-wife's still listed as his next of kin. Nor did he submit a change of address, though it seems that everyone he worked with knew where he was living. The South Wales Police sent someone round to break the news to his ex-wife, and to ask if she would come and identify the body. She said she'd rather not.'

‘He was only in his thirties, so what about his parents?'

‘Both went their separate ways when they were divorced ten years ago,' Ormside said. ‘No other relatives on file. I spoke to payrolls in accounting, and they say Whitelaw's wages used to be paid into his bank account at Barclays by direct deposit, but he had that changed to payment by cheque to a PO box number four months ago, saying his current account was closed. But that's not entirely true,' Ormside continued. ‘I had a word with the manager, and he said it was still open, but the most he's had on deposit for the past two months is twelve quid. He cashed his cheques at the bank, but he never banked any of it. And there's no record of a safe deposit box there either. Tregalles found his chequebook and a number of legal papers pertaining to his divorce in a cardboard box in his locker, but there's nothing unusual about them that we could see, so Tregalles has gone out to Oldfield Road to see what's stored out there.'

‘We need to settle the matter of identifying the body,' Paget said, ‘so see if you can persuade Mrs Whitelaw, or whatever her name is now, to come and do it.'

‘Davies,' Ormside said. ‘It's her maiden name. And I can give it another try, but the chap I spoke to down there said she was pretty blunt about it. She told him she never wants to see Whitelaw's face again, dead or alive, and wants nothing to do with his funeral, either. He said she was pretty bitter.'

‘Try it anyway,' Paget told him. ‘Apart from the formal identification, we need to talk to her, so it would be better if she could come here and we could do both at the same time. So tell her it's important that she come. It's not all that far, so she could do it and be back home the same day. You can tell her we'll pay for her travel and out-of-pocket expenses.'