A Killing Resurrected (6 page)

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 with 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.'

The pub was becoming crowded. The doors were wide open as more people pushed their way in, bringing with them the midday heat from outside, and suddenly, the hotpot no longer appealed to Paget. He pushed his plate away.

Rogers picked up his glass, then pushed it across the table and said, ‘It's your shout and I'll have the same again.'

When Paget returned from the bar with the drink, Rogers was mopping up the gravy with the last of the chips. ‘What was your impression of Sam Bergman?' Paget asked as he sat down. ‘Any problems with the business at the time? Any problems at home that you knew of?'

Instead of answering the question, Rogers picked up his beer and drank almost half of it before setting it down and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Look,' he said, ‘Sam might have been a bit on the sharp side when it came to business, but murder? No. Poor devil was devastated that day, and it was no act, believe me. Imagine, married nigh on thirty years, and you walk in and see that lot. It's no wonder the poor sod went to pieces. And if you are suggesting that we didn't do our job, back then, you're dead wrong. We investigated every possibility, and I'm telling you, it was a robbery that went wrong, and that's all it was.'

Paget shook his head. ‘I'm not suggesting anything of the kind,' he said, ‘but you must remember that the only information I've had to go on till now comes from the files, and these are some of the questions that came to mind. So I'm not looking to pick holes in your investigation; I'm looking to you to put me right about some of those questions.'

‘Well . . .' Rogers eyed Paget suspiciously. ‘So what else do you want to know?' he asked.

Paget hesitated. ‘I hate to keep going on about this,' he said, ‘but what about Taylor himself? Were there ever any doubts about
why
Taylor was in the shop at that time?'

Rogers scowled. ‘What do you mean by “any doubts”?'

Paget avoided a direct answer. ‘How old was Taylor at that time?'

Rogers thought for a moment. ‘Don't know, exactly. Mid to late forties; something like that. Why?'

‘And Emily Bergman?'

‘About the same. Maybe a couple of years younger.'

‘Attractive?'

Rogers shrugged. ‘Not particularly,' he said. ‘She was . . .' He broke off sharply. ‘You're not listening, are you?' he said, now visibly annoyed. ‘I keep telling you, it was a robbery that went wrong. Taylor looked in to see if Sam was still there. That's it. He'd done it many times before. I don't know what you think you have to gain by making out it was more complicated than it was.'

Undaunted, Paget asked another question. ‘Bergman had a part-time shop assistant, a woman by the name of Loretta Thompson, but she wasn't there that morning. Do you recall why that was?'

Rogers frowned. ‘As you say, she only worked part-time. They only called her in when things got busy.'

‘Quite a bit younger than Sam Bergman, wasn't she?'

Rogers sighed. ‘So what are you suggesting now?' he asked with exaggerated weariness. ‘That there was something going on between Sam and Loretta?'

‘I have no idea,' said Paget, ‘but I made a few enquiries before I came up here. Did you know that Sam Bergman had married again?'

Rogers eyed him warily. ‘I know he sold his shop and moved away a few months after his wife died. Said he couldn't bear to be in the place after that. Went somewhere south, I believe; don't recall where, exactly, but if he's married again, good luck to him, I say. Happen recently, did it?'

Paget shook his head. ‘Christmas Eve that same year to Loretta Thompson. Less than four months after his wife died. And they didn't go south; they opened another shop in Cambridge.'

‘I have the results of the tests, and they confirm my own diagnosis, Tom. Marion has COPD, Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease. Emphysema in this case, and it is well advanced. I'm afraid there's no other way to put it, Tom. Marion is in serious trouble.'

Dr Joseph Miller took off his glasses and began to polish them. He was a tall, stoop-shouldered man, whose grey hair and craggy face made him look older than he really was. He had been the Alcotts' family doctor for more than twenty years, and they had become friends, at least to the extent where they could talk freely to one another.

The two men were standing at the window at the end of the hospital corridor, looking out across Abbey Road to where the weathered stones of the minster ruins shimmered in the searing rays of the midday sun. A busload of tourists took pictures of one another against the backdrop of the ancient walls, while the driver, clearly bored, leaned against the bus, smoking a cigarette.

It was a pleasant summer scene, but it was wasted on Alcott, preoccupied as he was with what Miller had just told him.

‘And what I would like to know,' the doctor continued, ‘is why Marion let it go so long before coming to see me? She must have been having trouble for a long time; emphysema isn't something that comes on suddenly; it takes time to develop, and she must have known something was seriously wrong long before now. The coughing, the wheezing, the shortage of breath. To be brutally honest, Tom, I would have been far less surprised if it had been you with that condition, and from the way you're going on, that could still happen. God knows I've been trying to get you to stop smoking for years, but you wouldn't listen, and now it seems it's your wife who is suffering the consequences.'

Alcott bristled. ‘Are you saying it's
my
fault she has emphysema?'

Miller shrugged. ‘I've been in your house, remember? Who else in your house is a chain smoker? You must have seen what it was doing to her.'

‘I know she's had this cough she couldn't seem to get rid of,' Alcott admitted, ‘but we thought it was probably the after effects of the flu she had last winter.'

‘Oh, for God's sake, Tom, it's July! Or is that something else you didn't notice?'

Colour rose in Alcott's face. ‘What about you?' he demanded. ‘You're her doctor. You've seen her. We have check-ups every year. Surely
you
would have noticed if there was—?'

‘Marion hasn't been in to see me for more than two years,' Miller cut in sharply. ‘She missed last year altogether, and she's cancelled two appointments so far this year, so don't try to blame me for Marion's condition.'

‘It hasn't affected me,' Alcott shot back, ‘so why would it affect Marion. She could be allergic to—'

‘Now you
are
being wilfully blind!' Miller said scornfully. ‘This has nothing to do with allergies, but it does have everything to do with second-hand smoke, and I wouldn't be too confident about it not affecting you. Of course it's affecting you; you know it and I know it, and quite frankly, Tom, I'm getting sick and tired of telling people to stop smoking, have them ignore everything I tell them, then expect some sort of miracle cure when they fall prey to COPD.'

Alcott took a deep breath. ‘So what can be done for Marion?' he asked. ‘What sort of treatment will she have to take?'

Miller eyed Alcott bleakly. ‘I said it was serious, Tom, and I meant it. The damage to Marion's lungs is permanent. Lungs don't recover from something like this; they don't mend themselves. All we can do is try to alleviate the condition. The muscle spasms may respond to bronchodilators, and there are one or two other things we can do, but she will never be able to breathe properly again, and she must stay away from anyone who has the flu or any other infection.'

‘How long do you think she will be in hospital?'

‘That will be up to Dr Nichols – the consultant who spoke to you yesterday – and how well Marion responds to treatment, but I strongly advise you to find somewhere for her to go other than back to your house. I'm deadly serious about second-hand smoke, Tom. As I said, I've been in your house and you may be used to it, but I came out of there with my eyes stinging. The curtains, the carpets, the walls, everything is riddled with it. You must not take Marion back into that kind of environment. It could kill her.'

‘I'm not even going to ask how your day went,' Grace said when Paget finally arrived home shortly after six o'clock that evening. ‘I'm glad you phoned when you did, because after listening to the reports of a serious accident on the other side of Shrewsbury, I was beginning to worry. Did you see it?'

‘No, but I was one of several hundred people stuck in a mile-long tailback because of it,' he said wearily, ‘and it was like an oven in the car. Anyway, it's good to be home.'