A Killing Resurrected (14 page)

They sat on opposite sides of the table, marking each name as they went down the list. Thirty-two people had been invited to the party, and only three had not turned up.

‘Which means,' said Paget as they came to the end of the list, ‘that as well as Kevin Taylor, his wife, his brother, and his father-in-law, we're left with five other people who could have overheard what was said at the bar. Unfortunately, we can't leave it there. I think it's safe to assume that they would have repeated what they'd heard to the other people at the party who may have known Barry Grant.' He picked up his cup and was surprised to find it empty.

‘More coffee?' Claire asked.

Paget hesitated. Claire had been very cooperative up till now, but he sensed that she was not entirely comfortable talking about her friends. So, the more he could get her to relax, the better. ‘If it's no trouble,' he said. ‘You make good coffee.'

‘It's no trouble,' she assured him. ‘I could use a refill myself. Just be a minute.'

When Claire returned with the coffee, Paget asked about her work and what she was working on at present, and Claire found herself warming to the man. She'd thought him a rather cold fish when they'd first met in the Superintendent's office; the way he'd looked at her then had made her feel as if he were questioning everything she said. But now, facing him across the table, she could see the faint trace of a scar that had left one eyebrow higher than the other, giving him a perpetual quizzical look. Probably an asset in his profession, she thought as she covertly studied his face.

He had good features. Claire had discovered long ago that her interest in shape and form and structure was something that could be applied to virtually everything, not the least of which were faces. And Chief Inspector Paget had good, well-balanced features – apart from the raised eyebrow – but even that worked to his advantage, because it made his face more interesting. She wouldn't call him handsome, exactly, but he was attractive in a rugged sort of way, and not nearly as intimidating as she'd first thought.

Paget smiled. ‘Miss Hammond?' he prompted.

Claire felt the colour rising in her face. ‘Sorry,' she said hastily. ‘I'm afraid my mind was wandering. Now, where were we?'

Paget pursed his lips as he looked at the list. ‘I've met Kevin Taylor,' he said, ‘but not his wife. What can you tell me about her?'

‘Stephanie?' she said, frowning slightly. ‘I don't know what I can tell you about her,' she said slowly. ‘I didn't know her at school. She's a couple of years older than me, and I didn't meet her until a few days before she and Kevin were married. David told me they met at university. I think he said she was taking Business Administration, or something like that. Her father is Ed Bradshaw, but I wasn't formally introduced to him until last Saturday. David tells me that he is something of a fitness nut, which may be where Steph gets her energy from. She's a very dynamic person. She plays golf, tennis, swims, works out at the gym, that sort of thing, and still finds time to run a consulting business from home.'

‘Impressive,' Paget commented. ‘Would that be Grey's gym over by St Anne's?' He asked the question thinking that Grace might know Stephanie Taylor.

‘Oh, dear, no,' Claire said with a grin. ‘She and Kevin belong to Fairwinds. Steph goes out there at least three times a week. I go to Grey's. But I have played tennis with her a few times. She's very good.' Claire grimaced. ‘Beats me every time, for what that's worth.'

‘Would she have known Barry Grant?'

Claire nodded. ‘They were both at Leeds at the same time. In fact I'm told he had quite a crush on her for a while until Kevin warned him off.'

‘How did Barry take that?'

‘I don't know. You would have to ask Kevin or Steph about that.'

Paget nodded and looked down at his list. ‘Right,' he said. ‘So let's move on. What can you tell me about this chap, Roger Corbett?'

The Rose and Crown had undergone a number of changes since the time of the robbery, the biggest one being an expansion into the premises next door to make room for a dining area, and it was to a table in there that the landlord, Thomas Grady, led Tregalles and Molly Forsythe.

‘No,' Grady said in answer to a question from Tregalles about the kitchen, ‘that's been changed as well. Had to move with the times and put in ovens, metal tables, refrigerators – two of them – and don't think they were cheap! Then there was the dishwasher, all new water pipes, ventilation and electrics. I tell you, there were days when I gave serious thought to packing it in, but we were well into it by then, so there wasn't much choice. It was a case of carrying on or losing everything we'd worked for. Used to be you could go into a pub for a quiet pint and a game of darts, but now it's all food and fancy drinks. Hell of a lot more work and damned little to show for it.'

Grady was a big, red-faced man, jowly and running to fat. His breathing was laboured, and he wheezed when he talked. ‘Don't know what you expect to find after all this time,' he said truculently. ‘If your lot couldn't find the bastards who robbed me thirteen years ago, I don't know how you expect to find them now.' He shot a meaningful glance at a clock on the wall. ‘So whatever it is you want to know, best be quick about it, because I've got a lot to do before opening time.'

‘I shouldn't think we'll be very long,' Tregalles told him, ‘but that depends to some extent on how good your memory is. I've read the statement you gave us back then, but sometimes people remember little details that were missed at the time, and I'm wondering if anything like that has occurred to you?'

Grady shook his head. ‘Not that I haven't thought about it a good many times over the years. Those bastards took every last penny of the New Year's weekend's takings, to say nothing of smashing all that crockery, including the wife's fancy plate collection. She'd've gone spare if she'd still been alive to see it. Worth a bit, some of them pieces were, but the insurance wouldn't have it. Believe me, if I'd remembered anything, I'd have let you know.

‘Look,' he said, ‘we could sit here all day and I'd still have nothing more to tell you, so unless you have something new for me, and like I said, I've got better things to do. I'd help you if I could, but I can't tell you any more than you already know.'

Molly slid her notebook into the pocket of her coat, and rose along with Tregalles. ‘Your daughter, Sharon, was there that night, wasn't she, Mr Grady?' she said.

‘Aye, she was,' he said in a softer tone. He pointed to a picture on the wall of a bright-eyed girl smiling into the camera. ‘That's her, there.'

‘Pretty girl,' Molly observed. ‘Lovely smile.'

‘That's why I keep it there,' Grady said grimly, ‘because she's had little enough to smile about since. Not that I didn't warn her, but she wouldn't listen, would she?'

‘We would like to talk to her,' Molly said. ‘Can you tell us where we might find her?'

‘She'll not be able to tell you any more than I can,' Grady said. ‘She was scared stiff at the time, but she soon got over it. In fact I think she enjoyed being the centre of attention with her friends, talking about it all the time. But then, she was only eighteen at the time, and they don't take anything seriously at that age, do they?'

‘We'd still like to talk to her,' Molly persisted.

Grady shrugged. ‘Don't see as it can do any harm,' he said. ‘Married name's Jessop. Husband's a lorry driver, at least he was last week, but you never know with that one. She never knows where he is, either, or when he'll be home, except on pay days – hers, of course. Leaves her to bring up two kids, working full time, then expects her to keep him supplied with beer money. I keep telling her to pack it in. Get a divorce, I tell her, but she doesn't listen to me. Never has for that matter since her mum died.'

He sighed, and for a moment looked genuinely sad. ‘She lives not ten minutes from here in Peel Street,' he said. ‘Number 12, but she'll not be home now. She works on the till at Fairways Foods. Doesn't get off till six this week. Now, I don't mean to be rude, miss, but I do have to get on.'

‘Perhaps we could go out through the kitchen,' Tregalles suggested. ‘I'd like to take a look for myself, even if things have changed, and I want to take a look at the back lane as well.'

With Grady leading the way, they went through the kitchen to the back door. The smell of fresh-baked pies permeated the air, and Tregalles lingered beside a tray containing something like three dozen meat pies in the vain hope that Grady would suggest he try one.

The room itself hadn't changed; it matched the photographs taken of the scene at the time of the robbery, but the old wooden kitchen table had been replaced by a stainless steel work-table; the fireplace had disappeared, and in its place were two large ovens. Stainless steel sinks, a dishwasher, and commercial-sized microwave stood against another wall, and the space where the Welsh dresser had been was now occupied by the two refrigerators Grady had mentioned.

A young oriental lad stood at the centre table wrapping sandwiches in cling-wrap, and stacking them on a long wooden tray, while a small, dark-haired woman stood at the sink, washing lettuce. Neither of them looked up as Molly and Tregalles passed through, in fact the woman bent even lower over the sink and kept her face averted as they went by.

Illegal immigrants? Possibly, Molly couldn't help wondering, but she wasn't about to ask.

‘Just one more question before we go,' Tregalles said as they reached the door. ‘Does the name Barry Grant ring any bells from back then? Young lad, bit of a show-off by all accounts. About the same age as your daughter.'

Grady frowned in thought, then shook his head. ‘Doesn't mean anything to me,' he said, ‘but if he was the same age as Sharon, she might have known him. You'd have to ask her. Why? Does he have something to do with the robbery? Was he one of the bastards who robbed us?'

‘Still working on it,' Tregalles said evasively.

‘Have you talked to him?'

‘Can't, I'm afraid. He's dead.'

‘Just as well if he was one of them,' Grady growled. ‘Saves me the trouble of strangling the bastard myself.'

Little had changed behind the pub. A van parked there would have blocked the narrow lane completely, but no one else was likely to be using the lane at the time of night the robbery had taken place.

‘Fat lot of good that did us,' Tregalles grumbled as they made their way back to the car. ‘I told the boss it would be a waste of time, but he wouldn't have it. And I doubt we'll do any better by talking to Grady's daughter.'

‘Still, it's worth a try, isn't it?' said Molly. ‘She'll be at work now, but we could go round this evening.'

‘Can't go tonight,' Tregalles told her as they got into the car. ‘I have an ESSA meeting tonight.'

‘I've heard of ESL, but what's an ESSA when it's at home?'

‘English Schools Swimming Association. I'm on the committee, and we're preparing for a competition at the end of August, and I have to be there.'

‘I could go to see Sharon myself,' Molly offered. ‘Unless you'd rather . . .?'

‘No, no,' Tregalles assured her hastily. ‘As a matter of fact, it might be better if you did go on your own; she might talk to you more than she would to me. Now, what was the name of the next one on the list? The one who organized the poker games back then.'

‘Walter Roach was the solicitor who organized the games,' Molly reminded him, ‘but he left Broadminster several years ago, so the name I have at the top of my list is Appleyard. Roy Appleyard. He's the man who tried to resist when they demanded money. He owns that big plumbing supplies business in Glendower Road, but his office is in the back of the Bathroom Boutique, which he owns as well. When I phoned him this morning, he said he'll be in the office all day, but he also said he wasn't interested in talking to us unless we were coming to tell him we'd recovered his money.'

‘M
r Corbett?'

The man lowered the newspaper and peered at Paget over the top of his glasses. ‘Yes,' he said cautiously. ‘Mr . . .?'

‘Paget. Detective Chief Inspector Paget. Sorry to just walk in on you like this, but there is no one at the desk out front, so . . .'

‘Ah, yes, of course.' Corbett swung his feet off the open filing drawer, closed it, and folded the newspaper. ‘Joanie's probably in the back doing some copying or making tea,' he said. ‘I wasn't expecting you to get round to me so quickly.' He took off his glasses and slipped them into his shirt pocket. ‘Not that I can tell you anything anyway,' he added quickly, ‘but Kevin said you'd be making the rounds.'

‘You were talking to Kevin Taylor?'

‘That's right. He phoned me last night to tell me you wanted to talk to everyone who was at the party last Saturday.' Corbett's tone changed to one of anxious concern. ‘I couldn't believe it when I heard that someone had tried to burn down the old Grant house, and Claire could have been trapped inside. Terrible business, but I really don't see how I can help you. Kevin told me about your theory that it was someone at the party who did it, but with all due respect, Chief Inspector, I really do think you've got it wrong. I mean it's not as if any of
us
could have had anything to do with what happened to Kevin's father back then, is it?'

He looked to Paget for a response, and when none came, he let out a long breath in a sigh of resignation and said, ‘Still, since you're here, I suppose . . .' He waved a hand in the general direction of a chair facing the desk. The words and the gesture hung in the air, a grudging acceptance of the inevitable.