A Killing Resurrected Read online

  ‘And that,’ she ended wistfully, ‘is the way I prefer to remember Barry, because he changed so much over the years that almost everyone he’d grown up with avoided him – including me, I’m afraid. So when you ask about his friends, all I can tell you is that he knew a lot of people, and I’m sure he regarded many of them as his friends, but I can’t think of anyone who would claim Barry as their friend.’

  ‘Changed in what way, Miss Hammond?’

  ‘In trying too hard to be liked,’ said Claire. ‘He couldn’t stop acting: acting the fool; putting on a show; doing almost anything to draw attention to himself. He simply had to be the centre of attention, and that put people off. He couldn’t bear to be excluded from anything. He would attach himself to people, insist on being part of the group even when it was clear to everyone except Barry that he wasn’t wanted. He was his own worst enemy in that regard, and I felt sorry for Aunt Jane and Uncle Arnold, because they did everything they could to make him feel loved and wanted in their home, but it still wasn’t enough for Barry.’

  ‘You told us earlier that his mother died in tragic circumstances,’ Paget said. ‘How did he come to live with the Grants? Was there no father? No other relatives?’

  Claire became aware of Alcott moving restlessly in his seat as if impatient to be off somewhere. ‘It’s a long story, and not a very pleasant one,’ she said quickly, ‘but to give you an idea, I can tell you that Barry’s mother, Aunt Jane’s niece, was a prostitute who died of an overdose of drugs, and Barry, by all accounts, had a pretty miserable upbringing. There were no other relatives, at least not in England, so the Grants adopted him.’

  ‘Which was very good of them, I’m sure,’ Alcott said brusquely, ‘but the lad must have had some friends, surely? I mean according to what he’s written here, he claims to be part of a gang.’

  ‘What about David Taylor?’ Paget broke in quickly before Claire could reply. ‘Barry speaks of David in these letters as if he were a friend. Was that true?’

  Claire smiled wryly as she said, ‘When David was about sixteen, his uncle gave him an old broken-down Hillman Minx, and said he could have it if he could get it going and make it roadworthy. There was nowhere near David’s home where he could work on it, so he asked Uncle Arnold if he could use the space beside the old shed at the back of the orchard. There was a bench and a vice and all sorts of tools in the shed, and Uncle Arnold let David have the run of the place. David likes to work on his own, he always has, but Barry kept pestering him so much to let him help that finally David gave in, and that was a mistake, because Barry wasn’t content with that; he expected David to include him in everything he did. No matter where David went, no matter what he did, Barry would be there, and he kept it up until David went off to Slade. David thought that would be the end of it, but it wasn’t. When he came back to work in the bakery during the summer break, there was Barry once again, cocky as ever, ready to pick up where he thought they’d left off.’

  ‘I remember David Taylor,’ Alcott said. ‘He was one of the boys I spoke to at the time of Barry’s suicide. He worked for his father, I believe. Did he stay with the business after his father died?’

  Claire shook her head. ‘No. He stayed on until the end of summer, then left to continue his studies in art at Slade. But he still lives here. He owns the Brush and Palette art shop in Sheep Lane. We work together occasionally.’

  ‘Your work being . . .?’

  ‘I’m a designer and interior decorator. Small businesses, mainly, banks, shops, offices and private homes. David is an excellent artist, and he’s been a great help to me on some of the bigger jobs. I did the overall design and interior decorating, but he did that big mural in the town hall last year.’

  Alcott was impressed, and was about to say so when Paget asked a question. ‘Do you believe Barry when he says in his letter that he had no hand in the killing of those two people, Miss Hammond?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Barry was great on bravado, but it was all show. I could be wrong, but I think Barry was scared to death most of the time.’

  ‘Scared? Of what?’

  ‘Of not being accepted. Not belonging. Of failure.’

  ‘But why kill himself if he was innocent?’

  ‘That, I don’t know,’ said Claire. ‘Perhaps he felt he’d been backed into a corner and couldn’t see a way out. I’ve read those letters over and over again, and I think Barry had come to the end of the line. He was in over his head, running with a bunch of people who were quite obviously prepared to go to any lengths to protect themselves. They used him. People did that to him all the time. They took advantage of the fact that he was prepared to do almost anything to be liked and accepted, which may be how he came to be involved in the robberies in the first place. He loved cars, so I believe him when he says he was just the driver. The others probably wouldn’t trust him with anything else, and when they said they’d swear it was he who did the killings if he didn’t keep his mouth shut, he must have felt trapped.’

  Paget looked perplexed. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘If, as he says, they were prepared to swear that he was directly involved in the killings, why doesn’t he give their names? From what you’ve told us, it sounds as if you knew Barry as well or better than most, so while these people may not have been friends in the strictest sense of the word, surely you must have known who some of them were?’

  But Claire was shaking her head. ‘Once Barry left Gordon Street and went on to Westonleigh Secondary, I saw very little of him,’ she said.

  ‘Even though you were living next door to the Grants?’ Paget persisted.

  A flicker of irritation crossed Claire’s face. ‘I think it was simply time for both of us to move on,’ she said. ‘I suppose it was the end of our childhood in a sense. Barry became so involved with impressing his new-found friends at Westonleigh, that he spent very little time at home from then on. From there, he went on to Leeds University to take Mechanical Engineering, while I went to York on a scholarship, so we only ran into each other again on rare occasions.’

  ‘I’d like to go back to David Taylor,’ Paget said. ‘Barry says in one of the letters that David’s father pulled a mask off one of the thieves, and that was why he was killed. He goes on to say he couldn’t face David after what happened, but that is something that can be taken two ways. Is it possible that the reason Barry Grant stopped short of naming names was because he couldn’t bring himself to turn on someone he considered to be his friend?’

  Claire stared at Paget. ‘You’re accusing David?’ she said. Her voice rose. ‘Of killing his own father?’

  ‘I’m not accusing anyone of anything,’ he said. ‘I’m simply looking at possibilities. You know these people better than I do. All I’m asking is, do you think that’s possible?’

  ‘Absolutely not!’ Claire said icily. ‘I think I know David pretty well, and there is no way he would have been involved in such a terrible crime.’

  Claire Hammond had gone. Alcott, who had risen to usher her out, returned to his seat. ‘So what do you think?’ he asked. ‘Was young Grant telling the truth about those murders? Or did he actually kill those people, then try to put together a story to tell his aunt?’

  ‘Judging by the writing, I’d say he was telling the truth or at least trying to,’ Paget told him. ‘But whether he was or not, we can’t ignore this new evidence, although to be honest I don’t relish the idea of opening up a thirteen-year-old case. Memories fade, witnesses move. It won’t be easy.’

  ‘What about Miss Hammond herself?’ Alcott said. ‘She seems to be a no-nonsense sort of woman, but I’m not convinced she was telling the truth when she said she didn’t know who Barry’s friends were?’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Paget, ‘but she did react quite strongly when I asked if she thought it possible that David Taylor was involved in the robbery, which makes me wonder about their relationship.’

  �
��She did seem a bit touchy on the subject,’ Alcott agreed, ‘but perhaps she’s been asking herself that same question after reading young Grant’s letters. At least it could be a place to start – with Taylor, I mean. If nothing else, he might know who Grant’s friends were back then.’ He nudged the file in Paget’s direction.

  But Paget made no move to pick it up. ‘I think I’m going to need more than that,’ he said, ‘and since you were personally involved at the time, I might as well begin right here with you. What can you tell me about Barry Grant’s death? Was there any doubt in your mind that it was suicide?’

  ‘None whatsoever,’ Alcott said. ‘As far as I was concerned, sad as it was, young Grant was just another unhappy teenager who topped himself, and although we found no note, there was nothing suspicious about the death. Nor was there any suggestion that the lad was involved in any way with these robberies, or in any criminal activities for that matter.

  ‘As for the robberies themselves, the two earlier ones Barry refers to were done by the same gang of four masked men wearing loose-fitting black clothing, and they did all their communicating by using flash cards. They never spoke the whole time the robberies took place. They struck late at night and got away clean.

  ‘The Bergman robbery was completely different. It took place in broad daylight, and if it hadn’t been for a couple of flash cards they left behind in their hurry to get away, we might never have connected it to the two earlier jobs. They got clean away with something like thirty or forty thousand in cash, gold, and jewellery – I don’t remember the figure exactly, but, to my knowledge, none of it ever turned up – and they were never heard of again. All three robberies were investigated, as I said, by Jack Rogers, so if you need more, I suggest you talk to him.’

  ‘And the suicide?’ Paget prompted.

  ‘As I told you, I investigated that myself,’ said Alcott. ‘Barry Grant, nineteen years old, killed himself with a sawn-off shotgun in the packing shed at the back of the house. There was no note, and no one seemed to know why he did it, but neither was there any reason to suspect foul play. The thing I remember most vividly is the trouble the boy took to kill himself. He used an old shotgun that belonged to his uncle, but found it too long to reach the trigger when he turned it on himself, so he used a hacksaw to cut it down. The sawn-off barrels were there on the bench, along with the hacksaw. Stuck the gun under his chin and pulled both triggers. Took most of his head off.’

  Alcott’s mouth drew down in a hard line. ‘It was not a pleasant sight, I can tell you, and what made it all the worse was it was Mrs Grant who found him. Poor woman was beside herself.’

  ‘After she discovered his bed hadn’t been slept in, according to her letter to Claire Hammond,’ Paget said. ‘So when did Barry actually die?’

  ‘The pathologist put it at somewhere between one and two o’clock in the morning, as I recall.’

  ‘Didn’t anyone hear the shot? If he used both barrels, it must have been pretty loud. Surely someone would have heard it?’

  Alcott shook his head. ‘He was inside the shed with the doors and windows closed, and it was some distance from the house and the nearest neighbours. Just about everyone within hearing range would be asleep. In any case, no one admitted to hearing anything that sounded like a shot.’

  ‘And this happened just a few days after Bergman’s was robbed, and two people were killed?’

  Alcott sat forward, palms flat on his desk, preparing to rise. ‘Bergman’s was hit on the Saturday morning,’ he said tersely, ‘and Barry Grant killed himself on the following Monday. But as I said, there was absolutely nothing to connect the two events.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Read the files, then go and talk to Rogers himself. He retired to somewhere near Manchester. Pensions will have his address, so—’

  He was interrupted by the familiar rap of Fiona’s knuckles on the door as she opened it and entered the room. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Mr Alcott,’ she said, ‘but it’s Dr Miller. He’s on the phone, and he says he needs to speak to you right away. I told him you were in a meeting, but he insists on talking to you.’

  ‘Miller?’ Alcott’s brow furrowed as he peered at Paget as if expecting him to explain why his doctor wanted to talk to him so urgently, then shrugged and picked up the phone.

  ‘I’ll be outside,’ said Paget quietly as he rose and followed Fiona from the room. The secretary flicked a worried glance in Paget’s direction. She looked as if she wanted to say something, but she remained silent as she took her seat behind the desk.

  ‘It’s probably none of my business,’ said Paget, ‘but is something wrong, Fiona?’ He nodded towards the door.

  Fiona frowned. ‘Not that I know of,’ she said, ‘but I’ve spoken to Dr Miller before, and I’ve never heard him sound quite like that. He’s usually very polite.’

  ‘But not this time?’

  ‘Well, he wasn’t rude,’ Fiona conceded, ‘but he was certainly brusque, and he was very insistent on talking to Mr Alcott immediately! He made that very clear. It’s just . . .’

  Her words were cut off as Alcott’s door swung back and he came out of the office, one arm in the air as he struggled into his jacket. ‘It’s Marion,’ he said. ‘I knew she had a doctor’s appointment this morning, but she said it was just to get some more tablets for her cough. But Miller tells me he’s put her in the hospital. Sent her over in an ambulance.’

  ‘Oh, I am sorry,’ Fiona said. ‘Did he say what was wrong?’

  Alcott looked puzzled. ‘Can’t think what’s come over the man,’ he said. ‘All he would say was that Marion wasn’t in any immediate danger, but he refused to say more on the phone. Simply told me to meet him at the hospital, and hung up.’

  He turned to Paget. ‘I have to go,’ he said, ‘but I want you to get started on this case immediately. Go and see Rogers. I know he’ll be glad to help if he can. He’ll want to see these killers caught and punished.’ Alcott fished a packet of cigarettes from his pocket, stuck one in his mouth and lit it. ‘No need to look at me like that,’ he told Fiona sharply. ‘I’ll be out of the building in thirty seconds, so there’s not much point in calling the anti-smoking police, is there?’

  ‘Has his wife been ill?’ asked Paget as Alcott strode away.

  ‘Not that I know of, and I’m sure I would have heard.’ Fiona’s motherly features showed concern. ‘But it doesn’t sound good if Dr Miller sent her to hospital in an ambulance.’

  TWO

  Detective Sergeant John Tregalles checked the reference number of the files once more to make sure he had them all before settling himself in his seat. This was not the way he had intended to spend the afternoon, stuck here in the office, with the temperature hovering close to thirty-three degrees, sorting through ancient files, when he could have been out there at the Westhill Golf and Country Club, talking to members about the petty thievery going on out there. He’d been looking forward to that, but Paget had sent Molly Forsythe out there instead, and he was stuck with this lot.

  He opened the first file.

  Jack Rogers had led the investigation. A bit rough around the edges, was Jack – a bit too rough at times for some of the top brass, which may have had something to do with the inspector’s early retirement – but he got results. Usually, that was, but not in this case. Without evidence, without witnesses, and without so much as a whisper from the usually reliable sources on the street, even Rogers had found himself stumped.

  Paget seemed to think that this new information might lead to some sort of breakthrough, but Tregalles had his doubts. Thirteen years was a long time, and judging by his own recollection of events compared to what he had just read, it showed just how unreliable one’s memory could be.

  The first robbery had taken place on Tuesday, January 2nd, when four men, wearing dark clothing and ski masks, burst into the living quarters of the Rose and Crown in Beggars Lane, one of the oldest and certainly one of the most popular pubs in Broadminster. The landlord, a man named Thomas Grady, and his eight
een-year-old daughter, Sharon, were in the kitchen at the rear of the premises, counting and recording the takings from the previous evening, when the men entered by the unlocked back door. Grady, sitting with his back to the door, had told Rogers that the men were inside before he’d had a chance to turn round. In fact, he said, it was the sound of crockery, swept from the Welsh dresser beside the door, smashing on the tiled floor that first alerted him. He said he’d started to his feet, but they slammed him back into his chair and slapped tape over his mouth, while a third man pulled Sharon out of her chair and taped her mouth, then continued to hold her.

  And it had all taken place without a word being uttered.

  Grady said one of the men behind him had slid a metal bar beneath his chin and gripped it on both sides, forcing his head back against the top of his chair, half choking him, and he had the bruises to prove it. The man who appeared to be the leader took a white card from his pocket and held it up for Grady to see. The words on it were printed in bold capitals. They read:

  DO AS YOU ARE TOLD AND NO ONE WILL BE

  HURT

  OPEN THE SAFE

  When Grady had shaken his head, his statement said, the man behind him shoved his head down on the table, then slammed the bar down so hard beside it that he’d felt it brush his hair. ‘Then they all started doing it,’ he said, ‘smashing those bars down like they was beating a drum. They hit the table so hard that the tray from the till flew off the table, and coins and notes were scattered all over the floor. You only have to look at what they did to the table to see what I mean. I don’t mind telling you, I was so shit scared I gave them the combination. God knows I didn’t want to. We had the takings right from the Friday night through New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day, and I’m sure those bastards knew that.’