Night Fall Read online

  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?’

  SEVENTEEN

  Back 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.’

  ‘So, what’s next?’ Molly asked. ‘I haven’t seen DCI Paget today. Is he away?’

  ‘No, he’s here,’ Tregalles told her, ‘but it looks as if he’s going to be spending more time upstairs until DS Pierce gets up to speed.’

  Molly pushed her chair back and stood up. ‘In that case,’ she said, ‘I think we should go and talk to Mrs Fulbright about her husband’s alibi, and find out if Fulbright’s father can identify the rest of the people in the photograph of the choir.’

  ‘You really think there’s a connection?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Molly, ‘but it’s all we’ve got at the moment, so why don’t we go and find out?’

  ‘Can’t,’ Tregalles said. ‘At least not until tomorrow morning. Ormside’s away this afternoon. Dental appointment, so I’m filling in for him. But I could use your help. I’m behind on my daily reports, and Paget’s not too pleased about that, so would you do me a favour and transcribe them for me? I’ve got three days of notes to write up, and you can type a hell of a lot faster than me.’

  Connie Rice looked at the clock for perhaps the tenth time in the last five minutes. Her feet were killing her, and all she wanted to do was go home and crawl into bed. She hated to admit it, but the decision to buy the new shoes had been a bad one, and an expensive one as well. Even worse was her decision to wear them to work. They’d looked so neat in the shop, and she’d felt so sure that they would be all right once they’d been worn a bit, but she was wrong on all counts. She could have taken them off while she was servi
ng behind the bar, but she was afraid she wouldn’t get them on again. Besides, she was short enough as it was, which was why she’d been tempted to buy three-inch heels in the first place.

  She looked at the clock again. Twenty more minutes to go. She could have gone half an hour ago for all the trade there was. Old George Peacock was still there in his corner. A mate of his from the residence up the road had just left, but not George. George would be there until he was walked to the door by Vic, and gently but firmly pushed out into the night. The ten or twelve members of the family who had been celebrating some sort of lottery win had gone, and the couple who’d been drinking shorts all night were getting up to leave.

  Her thoughts skipped to the man who had come in just after ten. A stranger, broad-shouldered, good looking, who’d propped himself up at the end of the bar and started chatting to her. Fortyish, smartly dressed; grey roll-neck pullover and dark slacks. Longish hair that could do with a bit of a trim, but it looked good on him, so forget the trim. Nicely spoken, too. Didn’t sound like he was local. Chatted a bit about the weather to start with, then on to a few comments about the place. Commented on the silver charm bracelet she wore. Asked her if she’d worked there long, and she’d begun to think she was in with a chance. He seemed so nice, and it had been such a long time since she’d had a real date.

  He’d stayed for about an hour, drinking halves, then looked at his watch and said he had to go. ‘I enjoyed talking to you,’ he’d told her as he set his glass down, and she’d held her breath, expecting – or at least hoping – that he would ask her for a date. Instead, he’d shrugged into his coat, wished her goodnight, and left.

  Connie winced as she shifted from one foot to the other and looked at the clock again. The hands had hardly moved at all. Oh, to hell with it! She should just go. She began to undo her apron, then stopped. It would mean an argument with Rick, and you could never win with him. As far as Rick Crowley was concerned, her hours were five till midnight. The place could be empty, but that wouldn’t make a scrap of difference to him, so why risk the hassle for the sake of a few minutes? She’d thought he would cut her a bit of slack after she’d slept with him a few times, but business was business and pleasure was something else as far as Rick was concerned.

  ‘Better get those glasses stacked if you want to get off on time, Connie,’ he called from the other end of the bar. It was as if he had been reading her thoughts. ‘Up yours!’ she muttered beneath her breath as she picked up the glasses.

  Midnight at last. Connie hobbled into the office to get her coat. It had been raining on and off throughout the evening, so she put on a plastic rain hat and tied it loosely before stepping out into the night. The rain had almost stopped, but Connie hurried along the gravelled path to her car. It was parked at the very end of the small car park under the trees. Normally it would be the only one there at this time of night, but tonight there was another one just a few yards away from her own. She wondered about it in a vague sort of way as she swept leaves from the windscreen before getting in, but she was so anxious to get home and put her feet up that it didn’t really register. She was opening the door when she heard the sound of a footstep on gravel behind her. Suddenly fearful, she started to turn. She caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. She opened her mouth to scream . . . Her head seemed to explode; she fell against the car, and her legs buckled beneath her.

  Thursday, 27 October

  The sky had cleared overnight. The temperature had dropped dramatically, and there was a hint of frost in the air, but the sun was shining and it was a beautiful morning.

  ‘Seems like you’re always driving into the sun this time of the year, no matter which way you’re going,’ Tregalles grumbled as a shard of light half blinded him when he turned into the driveway leading to Fulbright’s house. ‘Just look at that, will you? Look at that house. I always knew there had to be good money in cars, but I wouldn’t have thought a sales manager could afford something like this.’

  ‘Rachel Fulbright has money,’ Molly told him. ‘Have you not heard of her? She’s quite well known for her metal sculptures, and there’s an example.’ She pointed to a free-standing sculpture of a tree, its limbs bare and graceful as it might appear in winter. ‘Didn’t you notice the one on the sign at the bottom of the drive as well? This is called Beech Tree House.’

  ‘Can’t say I did,’ Tregalles said as they got out of the car. ‘Not exactly my thing, metal sculpture. Audrey likes it, but it doesn’t do a thing for me. Half the stuff I’ve seen looks like the leftovers from a scrap iron merchant, and they charge the earth for it.’

  It was a big house. There was nothing particularly notable about it, other than its size, but in this part of town on this amount of land, it had to be worth a lot of money. Red brick, two storeys. Probably something like four or five bedrooms. The very tall chimney stacks were an odd feature, and yet they seemed to go with the house. Tregalles mounted the two shallow steps to the front door and rang the bell. Chimes sounded faintly inside, but there was no response. Tregalles pressed the bell again.

  Molly stood back from the house, head on one side, listening. ‘Hear that?’ she asked. ‘Hear that banging?’

  Tregalles came down to stand beside her, listening. ‘Back of the house,’ he said. ‘Let’s take a look.’ He led off with Molly following.

  There was a large, square, brick building, half hidden by a stand of trees on the far side of the lawn and tennis court behind the house, and the sound of hammering was coming from inside. There was no point in knocking, so Tregalles tried the door and found it unlocked. He poked his head inside, then pushed the door open and stepped over the sill. Molly moved in behind him and closed the door.

  A slim figure in overalls and goggles was hammering away at a piece of red hot iron on an anvil. Tregalles and Molly moved closer. ‘Mrs Fulbright?’ Tregalles called loudly, trying to time it between strokes. The woman kept on hammering. ‘Are you Mrs Fulbright?’ he called louder.

  ‘Yes, I’m Rachel Fulbright, and I heard you the first time,’ she shouted back, ‘but whatever you want will have to wait a minute. I can’t leave this now.’

  It was a full five minutes before the woman set the hammer aside, then took off the goggles, and wiped the sweat from her forehead on the sleeve of her overalls. ‘You don’t look like Seventh-Day Adventists or Mormons,’ she said, squinting at them, ‘so what do you want?’

  Tregalles and Molly took out their warrant cards and displayed them. ‘A few questions, if you don’t mind?’ Tregalles said.

  ‘Ah, yes, Mike did say someone would be round to check up on him. Good idea. He needs checking up on from time to time. Shall we go outside? I’m sweating like a pig.’

  Once outside, Rachel Fulbright led them to a metal bench. She unzipped the front of her overalls and flapped them about a bit before sitting down. ‘That’s better,’ she said with a sigh, motioning for them to sit down as well. ‘Now, what is it Mike’s supposed to have done, and I’m supposed to say he couldn’t possibly have done it because he was with me all day?’

  ‘That’s not quite the way it works, Mrs Fulbright,’ Molly said gently. ‘We do prefer the answers to be truthful.’

  Rachel Fulbright smiled crookedly. She was an attractive woman, not much older than Molly herself. ‘Now there’s a novel idea,’ she said, ‘but I’ll give it a try. What’s the question?’

  Tregalles gave her the times and dates of the murders. ‘And Mr Fulbright told us you can confirm that he was at home in bed in all three cases,’ he concluded.

  ‘Did he, now?’ Rachel pursed her lips and looked thoughtful. ‘He may have been,’ she said after a long pause. ‘But then again, he may not. I take it he didn’t mention our sleeping arrangements?’

  Tregalles and Molly exchanged glances.

  ‘No, I see by the expression on your faces he didn’t,’ she continued. ‘What I can tell you is that he went to bed as usual on those nights, and he was there again in the morning. But we have
separate bedrooms, and I sleep very soundly, so I never know which nights he remains there and which nights he pops over to sleep with his secretary and receptionist, Anita Chapman. It depends on whether or not her husband is home, so you may have to talk to her as well. Was there anything else?’

  ‘I’d appreciate it if you would treat this more seriously, Mrs Fulbright,’ Tregalles said stiffly. ‘Three people have been murdered in a particularly brutal way, and we do need to know where your husband was on those nights.’

  ‘Do you really think Mike had something to do with those murders?’ she asked, then shook her head vigorously and said, ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant, but the very idea struck me as so utterly preposterous that I couldn’t take it seriously.’

  ‘Preposterous or not, I would still like a proper answer, Mrs Fulbright.’

  Rachel pursed her lips. ‘What were those dates again?’ she asked. Tregalles read them off. ‘I don’t know about the others,’ she said slowly, ‘but the last ones, the nineteenth and twentieth – Wednesday night and Thursday morning, right? Mike was here. Well, to be honest, he was out of it, but his body was here. We had some people in Wednesday evening, and they didn’t leave until around one o’clock, and it must have been close to two before we got to bed. As I said, we have separate rooms, but he’d been drinking steadily throughout the evening, and I had to help him to bed. He was asleep the moment he hit the bed, so there’s no way he could have gone out and killed Gavin Whitelaw.’

  ‘You’re prepared to swear to that, if necessary, Mrs Fulbright?’ Tregalles asked.

  ‘If necessary,’ she said tightly.

  ‘Did you know Gavin Whitelaw?’

  Rachel Fulbright eyed Tregalles in a calculating way before she answered. ‘I knew who he was,’ she said carefully, ‘but he was by no means a friend, if that’s what you’re after. He and Mike knew each other from the time they were at school together, but Mike didn’t like the man, and he did his best to avoid him. But disliking a man is a far cry from killing him,’ she ended.