A Killing Resurrected Page 4

  ‘Thank you.’ Claire shrugged out of her coat and draped it across the back of a chair before sitting down at the table.

  David plugged the kettle in. ‘So, what brings you here?’ he asked as he, too, sat down. ‘Another job?’

  Claire shook her head. ‘Sorry, David, although I think I might have a sale for that evening seascape if all goes well. I know the perfect place for it in a home I’m doing in Uplands, and money wouldn’t be a problem. I should be able to let you know by the end of next week.’

  ‘But that’s not what you came to tell me?’

  ‘No.’ Claire fell silent, brow furrowed as she searched for a way to begin.

  ‘So, what’s the problem?’

  ‘It’s not a problem – at least, I hope it doesn’t turn into one, but I came to warn you that you might be getting a visit from the police in the near future.’

  ‘The police? Are you serious? What on earth would the police want with me? My MOT is up to date, at least I think it is, and I haven’t parked on any double lines lately, so what am I supposed to have done?’

  ‘Nothing that I know of, David, but I am serious, and I suppose the best way to explain how you come into it is to start at the beginning. You know, of course, about Aunt Jane leaving me the house and everything, but what you don’t know is that she left me something else as well. Some letters Barry Grant wrote before he committed suicide.’

  Taylor frowned but remained silent, waiting for her to go on.

  ‘You see, it seems that Barry was involved in the robbery in Bergman’s shop when your father was killed. Not that he was actually in the shop when it happened,’ she hastened to explain, ‘but he was outside in the back lane. He drove the getaway van.’

  Taylor’s expression hardened as Claire went on to tell him in some detail about Jane Grant’s letter to her, and the letter Barry had tried to write to Jane Grant before taking his own life. ‘The police have the letters, now,’ she concluded, ‘and they’ve assured me that the case will be reopened. The trouble is –’ Claire grimaced guiltily – ‘I’m not at all sure that Chief Inspector Paget got hold of the right end of the stick.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He’d been asking me about Barry’s background, and I happened to mention that you and he had worked together on that old Hillman one summer. I was trying to point out that you had been a good influence on him, keeping him occupied and out of trouble, but Chief Inspector Paget seized on that and sort of turned it around.’

  Taylor’s eyes were steady on her face as he said, ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, Barry said in one of his letters, that he couldn’t face you after what happened to your father, and the next thing I knew, I was being asked how close you and Barry were, and if I thought it possible that you could have been involved in the robbery, and you were the person your father unmasked.’

  Taylor stared at her. ‘Are you telling me that this policeman is suggesting that I was the one who killed my own father?’ he demanded hoarsely. ‘Based on some letters Barry Grant wrote before he killed himself? You know as well as I do that Barry was a nutter, and you never could believe anything he told you. For God’s sake, Claire . . .’ Words failed him.

  The kettle began to bubble, but he ignored it.

  Claire shook her head. ‘That is not what I said,’ she told him firmly. ‘What I said was, Barry mentioned you in the letter in such a way that it could have been taken more than one way. I’m sure he didn’t mean it that way, but it is a bit ambiguous, and all the Chief Inspector was asking was whether I thought it possible that it could have been you your father unmasked, and I told him absolutely not.’

  ‘Well, thanks a lot for that much,’ Taylor said ungraciously as he shoved his chair back and left the table to unplug the kettle and make the tea. His face was grim when he returned. He placed both hands on the table and looked down at her. ‘You say Barry admitted to being involved in the robbery, but insists he wasn’t inside with the others when Dad was killed. But how do we know that’s true? Barry never took the blame for anything in his life. Nothing was ever his fault. You should know, Claire; you grew up with him. What if it was Barry my father recognized, and Barry panicked? Isn’t that more likely to be the reason why he said he couldn’t face me?’

  Claire rose to her feet. ‘Look, David,’ she said quietly, ‘I’m only telling you my impression of what the Chief Inspector might be thinking, and to be fair, I suppose he has to look at every possibility. No doubt they’ll come round to talk to you, but when they find out that they’re wrong, they’ll look for others who were Barry’s friends at the time. I came to let you know what’s happening, that’s all, so please don’t blame me for the way the police think or go about their work.’

  But Taylor wasn’t listening as he began to pace within the narrow confines of the room. ‘The thing is, we weren’t even friends when all this happened,’ he said. ‘In fact we never were what you could call friends. I only let him work on the car with me because his uncle was letting me work there and use his tools for nothing. But to put it bluntly, he was a pain in the arse, always wanting to take the shortcuts, impatient to get the car on the road no matter what condition it was in.’

  He stopped in front of Claire. ‘Barry and I parted company long before Dad was killed,’ he said. ‘In fact I rarely saw him after that summer, and when I did see him coming, I did my best to avoid him. He seemed to think that because I’d let him work on the car when we were kids, it made us friends for life. He was like a damned leech, always wanting to attach himself to me.’

  ‘Now that is unfair, David. Barry looked up to you; he respected you, and he loved working with you on that old car. I remember how he dragged me over there one day to show me the car, and he introduced you as his best friend.’

  Taylor grimaced and shook his head. ‘I remember,’ he said grimly, ‘and he may have thought that, but I certainly didn’t. As I said, the only reason I let him anywhere near that car was because I felt I owed his uncle that much for letting me use the shed and tools, but to be brutally honest, I was glad to see the back of Barry Grant when he went back to school. Even then, he kept coming back almost every weekend, and I had to put up with him until the car was finished. After that, as I said, I rarely saw him. I was away at school myself that winter, and when I did come back I did my best to avoid him. The trouble was, Claire, Barry always came on too strong, and he drove people away. You know what he was like, and if it comes to that, you were closer to Barry than I was. After your parents moved away, you used to stay with your Aunt Jane when you were in town, so you must have seen more of Barry than I did. You must know who his friends were.’

  But Claire shook her head. ‘We were seldom there at the same time,’ she said, ‘and as for who his friends were then, I have no idea. I hate to admit this, because he was good to me when we were younger, but, like you, I avoided him. I even made excuses to Aunt Jane to avoid staying there when I knew Barry would be at home.

  ‘Anyway, I really must be going,’ she said, picking up her coat. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, but I really don’t see that you have anything to worry about if the police do come round, because—’

  ‘Apart from being accused of killing my own father, you mean?’ he said truculently. ‘What else did you tell this Chief Inspector of yours?’

  Annoyed by his belligerent tone, Claire came back at him. ‘He’s not my Chief Inspector, David, and I think you’re overreacting. I came here tonight as a friend to warn you about what may happen, and to let you know that they’ve reopened the case. I did not suggest they talk to you, and I will not be held responsible for whatever line the police choose to take. My only reason for taking those letters to them in the first place was because I thought what I had to tell them might help them find out who killed your father.’

  David Taylor spread his hands in a gesture of apology. ‘I’m sorry, Claire,’ he said. ‘I know it’s not your fault, and I would like to see these people caught, but it’s my
impression that once the police get an idea into their heads, it’s damned hard to shift it.’

  He followed her as she made her way to the door. ‘You’re still welcome to stay for tea,’ he said, but Claire shook her head.

  ‘Perhaps another time, David,’ she said as she went down the stairs ahead of him and opened the door to the street. ‘I’ll be in touch about that seascape.’

  ‘Right,’ he said uncertainly. ‘Good night, then, Claire.’ He closed the door behind her, but instead of going back upstairs, he sat down on the steps, elbows on his knees, chin cupped in his hands.

  Barry Grant! The guilt had come rushing back the moment Claire mentioned the name, and he could hear the kid’s voice inside his head as clearly as he had that night thirteen years ago. David groaned aloud. Just as he’d been in life; just when you thought you were rid of him, there was Barry, like an overeager puppy trying to nudge his way into your life. Always there even when you’d made it clear that you didn’t want him there, and you could only put up with that for so long before you became really annoyed. David closed his eyes, but there was no way he could shut out the sound of Barry’s pleading voice inside his head.

  Claire slid the key into the ignition, but she didn’t start the car. She was puzzled by David’s reaction. She’d thought he’d be pleased to hear that the police were reopening the investigation into his father’s death. As for the Chief Inspector’s questions, from what she had learned from watching crime shows on TV, the police always started out suspecting everyone, and they had to start somewhere, so it wasn’t as if David had anything to fear. All she had meant to do was let him know that the police would be coming round to talk to him about the things Barry had said in the letters to Aunt Jane.

  But it had come out all wrong.

  Claire had known David since she was about fourteen years old. He was a quiet boy, a couple of years older than she was, and she’d had quite a crush on him back then. But that had passed and she thought of him more as a brother now than just a friend.

  Their studies had taken them along different paths, but they would meet whenever they were in town together, and Claire had made a special trip back home to be at David’s wedding to Lucille Edgeworth, a girl he’d met on one of his field trips. She liked Lucille, who was outgoing, spontaneous, and full of fun, and a good match for David, who was inclined to take himself a bit too seriously. And yet, she remembered now the almost overwhelming sense of loss she’d felt as she’d watched the two of them join hands before the altar.

  Claire had left for Paris shortly afterwards, where she spent two years studying interior design and working six and sometimes seven days a week in a variety of part-time jobs to support herself and pay for her tuition. She’d heard nothing from David in all that time, but that was hardly unusual, since neither of them were great letter-writers, so it came as something of a shock to learn that he was no longer married when she returned to start her own consulting business in Broadminster.

  ‘We’re still good friends, Lucille and I,’ David told her. ‘We just couldn’t live together. Turns out our lifestyles simply didn’t mix, so we thought it best to go our separate ways, and I must say we’ve been getting on famously ever since. Lucille is marrying a very nice chap by the name of Ray Fisher. He owns several travel agencies. Pots of money, which is a good thing, because one of our problems was there never seemed to be enough money to go round, and Lucille does love to shop and buy nice things. Me, I just like to be left alone to paint.’

  Claire sighed as she started the car. She and David had been good friends for a long time, and she hoped she hadn’t jeopardized that friendship tonight. Odd the way he’d reacted, though . . .

  FOUR

  Wednesday, July 8th

  Jack Rogers, Paget discovered, lived in Wilmslow, not far from Manchester’s airport.

  ‘But there’s no need to come all the way in to Wilmslow,’ he told Paget on the phone. ‘Best meet me at the Three Bells. You’ll be on expenses, so you can buy lunch. Cut over to Congleton and come up on the A34. It’s about five minutes north of Congleton on the left-hand side. You can’t miss it. Make it half twelve. It gets a bit crowded if you leave it any later. Tell me what you’re driving and I’ll keep an eye out for you.’

  Rogers was a big, ruddy-faced man, running to fat. ‘I’d have had you come to the house, but the wife’s away to her mother’s while I do some painting and wallpapering, and the place is in a bit of a mess,’ he explained when they met at the pub. ‘Besides, if it’s information you want, and it’s worth your while to come all the way up here, I reckon the least the old firm can do is buy me lunch. Still, fair’s fair, so I’ll buy the first round. Boddingtons bitter do you, will it?’

  ‘Make mine a half,’ Paget told him. ‘I’ll be driving straight back after lunch.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ said Rogers, ‘but I’m having a pint.’ He nodded in the direction of the chalkboard above the bar. ‘I’d stay away from the scampi if I were you; all batter and no prawns. Hotpot’s always good, though. I’m having mine with chips. What about you?’

  It had been a long, hot, tiring drive, but, thankfully, it was cool inside the pub, and once he’d had a chance to cool off, Paget realized he was famished. He took out his wallet. ‘In that case,’ he said, ‘I’ll have the hotpot as well, but without the chips.’

  Now, seated at a scarred wooden table, Paget tucked in while Rogers drew deeply on his beer before setting the glass down and picking up his knife and fork. ‘So, what brought this on?’ he asked. ‘I’d have thought you had enough to do without digging up thirteen-year-old crimes. New evidence, you said on the phone?’

  ‘Letters that have only recently come to light, from a nineteen-year-old boy who committed suicide shortly after the robberies took place,’ Paget explained. ‘Claims he was the driver of the getaway van, and was outside in the lane when Emily Bergman and George Taylor were killed. According to his story, Taylor pulled the mask off one of the men and recognized him, so they killed Taylor, then killed Emily Bergman as well when she started to scream. At least that was the reason they gave for killing Mrs Bergman.’

  ‘So that’s why they killed them,’ Rogers said softly. ‘I always wondered about that. But what do you mean about the reason for killing Mrs Bergman?’

  ‘I’ll come to that later,’ Paget promised, ‘but right now—’

  ‘Who was this lad – the one who killed himself?’ Rogers broke in.

  ‘Barry Grant.’

  Rogers thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Doesn’t ring a bell, but then, it’s been a while. Did he give you names?’

  ‘Unfortunately, no. He was more concerned with explaining his own role in the robberies, and distancing himself from the killings.’

  Rogers grunted. ‘So what do you want from me?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve read the statements taken at the time, and I’ve listened to the tapes,’ Paget told him, ‘but what I would like from you is anything that is not on record: your impressions of various witnesses; suspicions you may have had, but were unable to back up with evidence. It seems to me that the strongest bits of evidence tying the three crimes together were the flash cards they left behind on the last job, but I couldn’t help wondering if that was deliberate.’

  Rogers jabbed his fork into a couple of chips, added a sizeable chunk of meat, and popped them into his mouth. ‘Don’t think you’re the first one to ask me that question,’ he said as he chewed. ‘And I’ll tell you the same as I told them. It wasn’t just the cards or the burnt-out van, it was the timing of the jobs, the planning – and the gut feeling that it was the same mob. Not that you can put that in a report.

  ‘See, these blokes were different,’ he went on. ‘You know what it’s like. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, robberies, break-ins, assaults, are run of the mill done by amateurs. Even killings are usually pretty simple when it comes down to it: family members, a fight over a girlfriend or boyfriend, pub brawls. But it was different wit
h this lot. Professional, they had everything worked out – except of course for the unexpected, like the baker walking in on them and putting up a fight. Otherwise, they knew exactly who would be there when they went in, and they knew how to use those iron bars to scare the shit out of their victims, making noise, smashing them down so hard they gouged chunks out of the tables so everyone could see what could happen to them if they failed to cooperate.’

  Rogers swallowed and scooped up another forkful. ‘And all this without so much as uttering a sound themselves. That was a nice touch.’ There was just a hint of admiration in his voice. He popped the food into his mouth.

  ‘Did you ever establish a connection between the people who were robbed?’

  Rogers paused to pry a piece of meat out of his teeth with a fingernail. ‘Oh, we looked into that angle all right,’ he said, ‘but you have to remember the victims were mostly local businessmen, so they all knew one another. Besides, almost anyone could have found out when that poker game was on, or when the take was counted at the pub. And Sam Bergman had been leaving the shop by the back door at nine thirty every morning for years, so almost anyone could have known that.’

  ‘Considering how well organized they were, it seemed odd to me that they hadn’t hit more profitable targets before hitting Bergman’s,’ said Paget. ‘Which made me wonder if they had another objective, and one of the possibilities that occurred to me was that the first two robberies were intended to make us believe that robbery was the motive in all three cases, but the real objective was the killing of Emily Bergman. I may be completely wrong, but we had such a case earlier this year, which is why the thought crossed my mind.’

  Rogers set his fork aside, picked up his drink, and nodded slowly. ‘Funny you should say that,’ he said, ‘because much the same thought crossed my mind back then, but there wasn’t a shred of evidence pointing in that direction. But I think you’re right in a way about the first two jobs. I think they were practice runs to make sure they had the technique down pat before going on to bigger things. But when the robbery turned to rat shit, and they realized they’d be facing a murder charge if they were caught, I think it scared them off and broke up the gang, because we never heard of them again, nor did anyone else as far as I know.’