Night Fall (20 page)

Paget settled back in his chair. ‘God knows Superintendent Alcott and I tried to get Mr Brock and others to see that, but it was like talking to a brick wall for all the good it did. So I wish you luck, Amanda, I really do, because I think it's important, but I suspect you'll find the door is also closed on that one.'

Amanda Pierce nodded slowly. ‘I suspected as much,' she said, ‘and I'm sure you're right, but I'm wondering if we can't overcome some of the obstacles by doing some in-house training.' She slipped on her glasses and picked up a file. ‘I see that you spent some time as an instructor at Hindlip Hall yourself, so I thought—'

Whatever Amanda was thinking was cut off by the ringing of her phone. She hesitated for a moment, then picked it up and said, ‘Yes, Fiona?' She listened for some time, then said, ‘Thank you, Fiona,' and put the phone down.

‘It seems Fiona has developed something of a quiet relationship with Mr Brock's secretary, Claire Raeburn,' she said, ‘and Claire phoned to let us know that Bronwyn Davies went over to New Street after she left here yesterday, and insisted on delivering a letter personally to the chief constable. She must have prepared it beforehand, because she repeated much of what she told you about her ex-husband and his sergeant, and said that, unless action is taken against the sergeant and
his
superior within the next thirty days, she'll go to the media with her story. Needless to say, it had the desired effect; there will be an internal investigation, and it sounds as if everyone in that section is already scurrying for cover.' The muscles around her mouth tightened, and her eyes were flinty as she said, ‘It would have been nice if Mr Brock had told me that himself, but perhaps it just slipped his mind when we spoke earlier this morning. Anyway, I suppose I should be grateful that Whitelaw was in Uniforms under DS Grimshaw and not one of ours.' Amanda took in a deep breath, let it out again slowly and said, ‘Now then, training. Where were we . . .?'

Picking through the contents of old, rusting biscuit tins was not Molly Forsythe's idea of how a newly minted detective sergeant should be spending her time. But, regardless of her feelings, the job had to be done, and as DS Ormside had pointed out, it should be done by someone who was familiar with what had been found among the possessions of the previous victims.

She looked at the list she'd been compiling as each item was removed: a fountain pen that used real ink, two pencils, a four-inch-wide paint brush that had never been cleaned and should have been tossed long ago; string; a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, a half-used packet of corn plasters; two batteries, corroded . . . Really! What was the point, she wondered as she put everything back and opened the second tin. More of the same by the look of it. God! The things people collected! Sticky tape, brittle with age; bits of cloth; more string and rubber bands, odds-and-sods of every description. Something in an envelope at the bottom of the tin. Photographs. She shuffled through them, counting as she went. Twenty-two of them, some fairly old, judging by their subject matter, and they were all of Gavin Whitelaw, from the time he was a boy of ten or twelve, to when he was about twenty. Pictures of him astride a motorbike, at the wheel of a car, on a beach with a group of young men waving bottles of beer about. Clearly, the man had thought a lot of himself, she thought as she studied each one.

She stopped at a group picture, a little different from the rest. It was a picture of a choir outside a church. Adults, male and female, in the back row, teenagers in the middle row, small boys and girls in the front row. Molly recognized the church: All Saints on Riverview Road. And there was Gavin Whitelaw in cassock and surplice in the middle row. Thinner in the face and with hair brushing his shoulders, he'd been quite a good looking kid. Hard to think of him as a choir boy, but there he was, grinning at the camera.

A memory stirred in the back of her mind. A snapshot of an angelic looking Billy Travis in cassock and surplice. She stared at the picture in front of her. Yes! There was Billy at the end of the row. Older in this picture – sixteen or seventeen, perhaps? He was so slight and small compared to the other boys, it was hard to tell his age.

Molly sat back in her chair. So the two boys had been in the same choir back then, but did that mean anything? She opened a desk drawer, took out a magnifying glass and bent closer to examine each face, but if Dennis Moreland was there, she couldn't see him. She set the picture aside and dug back in her notes for Joan Moreland's telephone number.

Joan answered on the third ring. She sounded cheerful enough when she first answered, but her voice became guarded when Molly identified herself. ‘Dennis? In the choir at All Saints?' she echoed when Molly asked the question. ‘Oh, no. He didn't belong to any church when I first met him. It took me quite a while before I could persuade him to come to mine, and then it was only because of the children and Sunday school. What's this all about anyway?'

‘We're still trying to find the reason for your husband's death,' Molly told her, ‘so we have to look at every possibility, no matter how improbable. Sorry I had to trouble you again, Joan.'

‘It's . . . it's no trouble.' Joan Moreland's voice had softened. ‘And I'm sorry if I was short with you the other day. I know you were only trying to do your job. So if there is any way I can help, I don't mind if you call.'

So that fence was mended, thought Molly as she put her phone away, but she was still no further ahead. She sat looking at the photograph, then made up her mind. It might not come to anything, but it was better than what she was doing. She shuffled through the remaining pictures. All the rest of them were of Gavin Whitelaw mugging for the camera in his younger days, and none included Billy Travis.

All Saints church was set well back from the road on the corner of Riverview and Rutland. Its high, square tower of weathered stone was a landmark in the town; it could be seen from almost any point of the compass, and was frequently used as a point of reference when giving directions. When comparing it to the photograph of the choir, the church itself was unchanged, but the grassy bank and shrubbery that had served as a background were gone, replaced by a paved car park. Another mark of ‘progress', Molly thought wryly. On the other hand she would have had to feed the meter if she'd parked on the street, so perhaps she should be grateful for small mercies.

There were two other cars in the otherwise empty car park, an ancient Volvo and a bright red Mini Cooper. Molly had always liked the look of Mini Coopers, in fact she might have owned one if it weren't for the price. She gave the car an affectionate pat on the roof as she went by.

Molly climbed the steps, opened the heavy, iron-bound door and went inside. She hadn't been aware of the street noise outside until the door closed behind her, and suddenly there was silence. She stood there for a moment, looking down the long centre aisle to the chancel, choir stalls on either side, and the altar beneath a stained glass window. It had been chilly outside, but it seemed even colder inside. Cold and still. Molly shivered . . . then jumped when a voice beside her said, ‘Can I help you? Oh, dear, did I startle you? Sorry. I didn't mean to.'

Molly turned to face the speaker, a small, round-faced woman with a kindly smile. ‘I'm Esther Phillips, the vicar's wife,' she said, extending her hand.

‘Molly Forsythe,' Molly said automatically as she took it. ‘I'm looking for your husband. Is he here?'

‘He's in the office. If you'd like to come with me?' Esther Phillips set off down the aisle. ‘I don't believe I've seen you here before,' she ventured. ‘New to the parish, are you, Molly?'

Molly produced her warrant card. ‘Actually I'm here on business,' she said. ‘Detective Sergeant Forsythe, and I'm looking for some information from your husband.'

Esther Phillips stopped to turn and look at Molly. ‘To do with Brian? Or the church?' she asked anxiously.

Molly smiled. ‘It's nothing like that,' she said. ‘I just need to ask him about some old records. It's to do with a case we're working on, and he may be able to help.'

‘Oh, that's all right, then,' Esther said as she set off again, turning at the chancel steps to lead Molly through a door into a corridor, at the end of which was another door bearing a brass plate that said
Office
.

Esther tapped gently then opened the door and poked her head inside. ‘I have a visitor for you, Brian,' she announced, opening the door wider. ‘A Detective Sergeant Forsythe. Can you spare a minute?'

The Reverend Brian Phillips was a ruddy-faced man in his sixties. Grey hair and thick, bushy eyebrows, roughly hewn features, he wore a heavy woollen cardigan and baggy trousers, all of which made him look more like a farmer than a man of the cloth. He rose to his feet and came out from behind a small desk.

Slightly stooped, he waved a dismissive hand when Molly asked if she was interrupting anything important. ‘Nothing that can't wait,' he said. ‘Besides, I could use a break. Would you like a cup of tea . . . umm, Detective?'

‘I would,' said Molly. ‘Thank you. And since I'm not here to arrest anyone, just Molly will do for now.'

‘Well, that's a relief,' he said with a chuckle. ‘Detective Sergeant did sound a bit intimidating. Now, what's this about?'

Molly brought out the picture and showed it to him. ‘I'd like to know if you could identify the people in this picture for me. I know a couple of them, but not the rest.'

Phillips looked closely at it, then shook his head. ‘I'm sorry,' he said, ‘but this was taken long before my time here. I've only been here three years. But you could ask Theodore. Theodore Fulbright. No doubt he would know who these people are. He was the pastor here before me. He lives with his son and daughter-in-law now. Interesting chap. He's also an excellent miniaturist. Makes doll's houses and miniature furniture and that sort of thing. Took it up as a hobby some years ago for relaxation. Shame, though. He has Parkinson's disease. Early stages, but it doesn't bode well for that kind of work, I'm afraid.'

Fulbright. Coincidence? Not likely. ‘Is his son's name Michael?' Molly asked. ‘Sales manager at Bridge Street Motors?'

‘That's the one,' Phillips confirmed. ‘I can give you his home address if you like.' He didn't wait for an answer but went to his desk and leafed through a leather-bound phone book, then scribbled the address and gave it to Molly. ‘Anything else I can do?' he asked.

‘Can you tell me if any of the people in the picture are still in the choir? Do you see anyone you recognize?'

Phillips studied the picture again. ‘That's Mike Fulbright,' he said, pointing to a tall lad in the middle row. ‘I didn't realize he'd been with the choir that long. He's still with us, of course. Excellent baritone. You could ask him. Oh, yes, and there's Meg Bainbridge. Pretty girl, wasn't she, back then? She has a good voice as well.'

‘What about this boy?' Molly pointed to the lad at the end of the row.

Phillips peered closely at the picture. ‘Billy Travis! Oh, my goodness! There's another one who—' He stopped abruptly. ‘So
that's
why you're here,' he said softly. ‘I was absolutely stunned when I heard he'd been killed. Terrible! Absolutely terrible. I can't say I knew Billy very well, but he seemed like a nice little chap. As a matter of fact, he was sitting next to me on the bus a few weeks ago on our way back from the choral festival in Chester.'

‘What about Gavin Whitelaw? Was he still a member of the choir as well?' Molly pointed him out in the photograph.

Phillips looked closely at the picture, then shook his head. ‘No, I don't recognize him or the name, although . . .' He paused. ‘Isn't that the name of the fellow who was killed the other night?' He looked hard at Molly. ‘Are you suggesting that these recent deaths have something to do with the choir?'

Molly shook her head. ‘Not necessarily,' she said, ‘but we're looking for a connection between these men, and it's beginning to look as if they did know each other when they were young. Does the name Dennis Moreland mean anything to you?'

Phillips shook his head. ‘Afraid not,' he said. ‘Sorry. Perhaps Theodore will be of more help.'

‘What about the choirmaster?' Molly asked. ‘Is he . . .?' She stopped. Phillips was shaking his head and smiling ruefully.

‘Gone as well, I'm afraid,' he said. ‘Moved to Market Drayton. He has family there, I believe. Peter Jones is the choirmaster now. Has been for the last couple of years.'

‘Tea and biscuits,' Esther announced as she came through the door, bearing a tray, then turned a baleful eye on her husband. ‘Shame on you, Brian,' she said tartly. ‘Standing there all this time. Why ever didn't you offer Molly a seat?' She set the tray down and picked up the teapot and milk jug. ‘Milk in first, is it, Molly?'

B
ack in the office, Molly sought out Tregalles and told him about her conversation with the Reverend Phillips. ‘The trouble is,' she concluded, ‘all it tells us is that Billy Travis, Gavin Whitelaw and Mike Fulbright knew each other back when this picture was taken. And Whitelaw went to see Fulbright a couple of days before he died, but I don't know if that's significant or not. Did you get anything out of Fulbright this morning?'

‘No. He's sticking to his story about Whitelaw talking about trading in his car, and says Whitelaw must have been playing some sort of bizarre game. He even suggested that Whitelaw had committed suicide and wasn't murdered at all.'

‘With his hands bound and an A carved in his forehead?' said Molly. ‘That's a bit of a stretch, isn't it? Could Fulbright be our killer?'

‘I suppose it's possible,' Tregalles said slowly. ‘He's big enough and strong enough. But those killings were planned very carefully, and Fulbright doesn't strike me as a planner. He strikes me as the sort who makes it up as he goes along. Like this morning. I know he was lying, but he'd made up that story and he's sticking with it. He claims he was at home in bed on the nights all three men were killed, and says his wife will confirm that. Another possibility is that he's a potential victim, because I know I hit a nerve when I mentioned Moreland and Travis. He tried to hide it, but he's definitely worried about something.'