Breaking Point (10 page)

Olive shook her head again. ‘Never said a word. Not even a thank you, come to think of it.'

‘And the man just walked away?'

‘That's right.'

‘So, what did Mickey do then?'

‘He just sort of stared after the man, then jumped up and said he had to go to the loo.'

‘And he never came back? What about Mark? What did he do?'

‘Went over to the bar and got a cloth to mop the table, then sat down to wait for Mickey. He kept looking at the time, then went off to look for him – at least I suppose that's where he went. Then he came back again and started asking people at the bar if they'd seen Mickey, and finally went through to the lounge. I never saw him again after that.'

Neither Emma nor her boss, Jack Tanner, could remember serving a whisky to a foreigner, nor did they remember the older man Olive Kershaw had described. ‘We go through a fair bit of whisky in a night, especially on Fridays and Saturdays,' Tanner told them. ‘It's all we can do to keep up with the orders, so we're not paying much attention to who's ordering, unless we know them, of course. Trouble is, you see,' he continued as he collected glasses, ‘the Red Lion's got a bit of a reputation for “atmosphere, conviviality, and good grub”.' He laughed. ‘At least that's what it says in the adverts in the local paper, so we're always seeing new people. Sorry.'

They were halfway back to Broadminster before Tregalles roused himself from a gloomy silence. ‘What we need to know,' he said, ‘is who Mickey Doyle was working for.'

‘And who the man was who brought him the whisky,' Molly said. ‘They could be one and the same, and it sounded to me as if he was warning Doyle to keep his mouth shut. Which would account for Doyle's sudden urge to leave.'

Molly flashed her lights at an oncoming car with its high beams on. The lights dipped.

‘It also suggests that he and Doyle were engaged in something illegal,' she continued, ‘or at the very least, something he didn't want talked about in a pub, especially to a budding reporter. So Mickey leaves the pub in a hurry, and no one seems to have seen much of him from that point on, with the possible exception of his closest neighbour. Newman is said to have been excited about something after talking to Doyle, then he disappears on Thursday, and Doyle is whisked off early Friday morning by two men who claim he is off to Ireland. Bit more than coincidence, wouldn't you say?

‘So, yes, I think you are right,' she went on without waiting for an answer, ‘we have to find out who Doyle was working for, and once we know that, we may have the answers to both disappearances.'

Molly glanced across at Tregalles. He hadn't heard a word she'd said. Head down, chin on his chest, the sergeant was fast asleep.

C
offee mug in hand, Tregalles sat hunched forward in his chair in Paget's office. ‘
Someone
out there in Whitcott Lacey has to know what's going on,' he said after telling Paget about the conversation he and Molly had had with Olive Kershaw the night before.

‘The way I see it, Newman was looking for a story that would get him a job on one of the local papers, and I think he found it with Doyle. We talked to some of the regulars in the pub before we left, and they all agreed that Doyle rarely volunteered anything when he was sober, but it was quite a different story when he'd had a few too many drinks, and I think Newman took advantage of that. But someone must have realized what was going on, and warned Doyle off, because, according to Olive Kershaw, he took off like a scared rabbit after the bloke nobody seems to know or remember brought him a drink and had a few words with him.

‘So, Newman disappears the following Thursday, and two men come for Doyle first thing Friday morning, and neither Doyle nor Newman have been seen or heard from since. Then Wisteria Cottage is broken into and Newman's room is cleaned out – possibly by the same two who came for Doyle.'

The sergeant drew in a long breath and let it out again. ‘I don't know what's going on out there,' he said slowly, ‘but I have the feeling that somebody is going to a lot of trouble to keep it that way.'

Paget nodded. ‘I think you're right,' he said, ‘and if that is the case, then it doesn't look good for either Newman or Doyle.' He glanced at the time, hesitated, then shook his head.

‘I'd like to go out there with you this morning, but I have to be in New Street in half an hour. It's budget time again, and since everyone is clamouring for a bigger share of the pie, I can't afford
not
to be there. Unfortunately, I will probably be tied up for a good part of the time during the next couple of weeks, so you will have to take the lead on this, Tregalles. And the sooner you and Forsythe get back out there and start putting a bit of pressure on Doyle's neighbours in the caravan park, and anyone else who admits to knowing him, the better.'

Tregalles rose to his feet. ‘On my way,' he said as he made for the door. ‘All right if I call your mobile if necessary while you're in your meetings over there?'

‘Feel free,' Paget told him as he stood up and began stuffing folders in his briefcase. ‘But do try to make it good news. Mr Brock doesn't like any other kind.'

Paget felt completely drained by the time the meeting broke up at five o'clock. He wasn't fond of meetings at the best of times, but a meeting chaired by Chief Superintendent Morgan Brock was something else again. With his accounting background, Morgan Brock reduced everything to numbers, ratios and percentages, all backed up by graphs and pie charts that virtually ignored the human factor and the complex nature of the job.

‘You're not exactly endearing yourself to the man,' Alcott had warned him yet again at lunchtime. ‘His mind is made up and you're not going to shift him, so let it be. We'll just have to find a way to work within the parameters he sets.'

But Paget always felt he had to try, and he had managed – finally – to wring one concession out of the chief superintendent. Brock had grudgingly accepted Paget's argument that a total ban on overtime could, under certain circumstances, lead to unwelcome criticism from the public and the press.

It was the press that did it, of course. If there was one thing Brock did
not
like more than loosening the purse strings, it was bad publicity.

Paget was tempted to go straight home, but with the prospect of several more days of meetings ahead of him, he decided to go back to the office and clear as much of the paperwork on his desk as possible before calling it a day.

There were a number of messages awaiting him when he returned to Charter Lane. He shuffled them into some sort of order and dealt with them swiftly, but the one he didn't recognize he left till last.

Vincent Perelli? He couldn't think of anyone he knew by that name, but apparently the man had said the matter was urgent, and had asked that Paget return his call asap.

He punched in the number and settled back in his chair. The phone at the other end was picked up on the first ring. ‘Perelli,' a man's voice said cryptically.

As soon as Paget identified himself, the man broke in with an effusive, ‘Ah, Mr Paget, thank you so much for returning my call so promptly. I am so sorry to trouble you at your work, but it is very important that I talk with you about Miss Lovett.'

Grace? What did she have to do with someone by the name of Perelli?

Of course! The penny dropped. Perelli was the owner of Grace's flat. He'd only met the man once, and then only briefly. Short neck, chest like a barrel, tightly curled grey hair. ‘What about Miss Lovett?' he asked cautiously.

‘It's about the lease on the flat,' the man said. ‘You see—'

‘Shouldn't you be talking to Miss Lovett about that?' Paget cut in sharply.

‘But I have, Mr Paget. Several times, but it is no good. She will not listen to me, and it is a good deal, believe me, sir.'

Paget was tempted to tell Perelli that he didn't want to get involved in what he regarded as strictly Grace's business, but he was intrigued. ‘What, exactly are you talking about, Mr Perelli?'

‘The lease on the flat. I have tried to tell her she would never get such an offer from anyone else. I am prepared to pay her a reasonable price if she will let it go, but she says no. I ask her if she intends to move back, and she tells me no, but she still won't let me have it back. I don't understand. But I thought if I spoke to you, perhaps you would be good enough to try to persuade her . . .?'

Paget sensed a hopeful shrug at the other end of the line.

‘Let me be sure I understand this,' he said. ‘Are you saying you have offered to
pay
Miss Lovett to break the lease and return the flat to you?'

‘Yes, yes, of course that is what I am saying, and I assure you, she will never get another offer like this.'

‘I see.' He didn't exactly, but he was beginning to. Under the terms of the existing lease, there was a penalty that would have to be paid by Grace if she wished to terminate the lease ahead of time. Now Perelli was offering to pay
her
to break it.

But the thought that pushed everything else into the background, and sent a chill into the very marrow of his bones, was that Grace had never said a word about it to him.

‘I take it you have someone who wants the flat and is prepared to pay a higher rent than Miss Lovett is paying?' he said.

‘That is true, Mr Paget. That is true, but if Miss Lovett will no longer be living there, I do not understand why she will not let me have it back. I have offered her good money. If you would just talk to her, please, Mr Paget, I would be most grateful.'

‘When did you last speak to her yourself?'

‘Yesterday, last week, the week before, but she keep saying, “Not now, Mr Perelli. Not now.” So I say, “When, Miss Lovett?” but she just shakes her head, and gives no reason. She won't tell me why. So, I ask for your help, sir. She will listen to you.'

‘What makes you think she will listen to me?' asked Paget neutrally. ‘This matter is really none of my affair, and I'm not at all sure that I should become involved. What Miss Lovett does is her own business.'

‘But your business as well, now that she is living with you in your house. Is that not so, Mr Paget?'

‘I think you are taking a great deal for granted, Mr Perelli,' he said stiffly, ‘and I'm afraid I cannot help you. You and Miss Lovett will have to work this out between you. I don't want anything to do with it. Sorry, but that's the way it is, Mr Perelli.'

Paget hung up the phone, sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. What
was
going on? he wondered. Why was Grace being so stubborn about letting the flat go? She certainly wasn't keeping it for the fond memories it held, not after what had happened to her there. So why wouldn't she let it go, especially when Perelli wanted it so badly that he was willing to pay her to break the lease? And he couldn't believe that she was holding out for a better offer. That wasn't like Grace at all.

Once again the fear of losing her took hold. It seemed clear to him now that Grace was clinging to the flat as a means of escape if things didn't work out between them. She said she loved him, and he believed her, but perhaps she was not quite as sure as he was about a long-term commitment. His first impulse was to tell her about Perelli's call, to ask Grace point-blank why she didn't want to let the flat go. But caution raised its head, and he realized he wasn't yet prepared to take the risk. He hoped and prayed that she would stay. If he had his way they would spend the rest of their life together – but as long as there might be some doubt in Grace's mind about their future together, he was not going to be the one to bring it out into the open.

Grace got home more or less on time that evening. More or less because neither of them could ever be sure when they would finish work each day, so they considered themselves to be ‘on time' if they arrived home within an hour of each other. Arriving some fifteen minutes after him, Grace kissed him briefly, then stepped back to hold him at arm's length and eye him critically. ‘You look tired,' she said. ‘You said this morning you weren't looking forward to a day with Mr Brock. Did you make any headway at all?'

‘About that much,' he said, holding thumb and forefinger about a millimetre apart.

‘And you're hungry,' she said. ‘So, enough of this dilly-dallying; I'll start dinner right away.'

‘Better still, why don't we go down to the village and have dinner at the White Hart? It isn't the fanciest place around, but the food's good. I took a chance on your not being late tonight and booked.'

Grace hugged him. ‘Oh, you lovely man,' she said. ‘I'm starving myself, so just give me time to tidy myself up . . .'

‘You have twenty minutes,' Paget called after her as she made for the stairs.

Paget turned away as Grace ran up the stairs, his thoughts in turmoil. The way she had greeted him, her concern for his well-being, the way she would come into his arms each time she came home told him more than words that she really did love him. But still hovering like an ominous cloud in the back of his mind was the call he'd had that afternoon from Vincent Perelli.

The small dining room was full, and the lively background chatter coming through from the bar gave the place something of a festive air. ‘I like this place,' Grace said as they settled in their seats. ‘And the nicest part about it is there's no washing up to do afterwards. We should do this more often.'

‘Which reminds me,' said Paget, ‘Tregalles was telling me that the Red Lion at Whitcott Lacey serves very good food. Both he and Molly say it's just like stepping back in time. Tregalles is even talking about taking Audrey out there for a meal, so if that turns out well, perhaps we could take a run out there one evening.'