Night Fall (23 page)

‘Tregalles and Forsythe can take care of it just as well as I can,' he said. ‘Did they talk to the new choirmaster yesterday? What's his name?'

‘Peter Jones. No. They had arranged to see him this morning, but Jones is a computer tech with B and B Data Specialists, and he had to go out on an emergency call to one of the banks in Tenborough, so he's going to give us a call when he gets back.'

Paget looked at the whiteboards and decided it wasn't worth sitting in on the morning briefing. It would be a regurgitation of old material, and although he knew everyone was doing their best, there was little left for them to follow up.

‘Keep me posted, then,' he said as he walked away. ‘I'll be with Superintendent Pierce for most of the morning, so call me on my mobile if you have anything to report.'

Sandra Palmer was a small, plump young woman with a baby face, straight fair hair, large blue eyes, a nose-stud, and mother-of pearl fingernails that sparkled every time she moved her hands. She wore a bulky sweater and black slacks beneath a plastic mac, and carried a shoulder bag that would barely make it through most airports as carry-on luggage.

‘Change of clothes for the office,' she volunteered when she saw Molly looking at it. ‘I ride a bike to work. I should be there now, by rights, but I called in sick. Didn't want to tell them I was going to be talking to the police, or they might have thought all sorts of things.' She giggled self-consciously. ‘Anyway, here I am, so what do you want to know?'

‘Let's begin at the beginning,' Tregalles suggested. ‘You share a flat with Connie Rice, right?'

‘That's right. We split everything down the middle: the rent, the meals, the washing up and the—'

‘Yes, yes, I understand,' Tregalles broke in, ‘and according to the information you gave the officer on the phone, the last time anyone saw or heard from your friend Connie was Wednesday midnight when she finished work at the Red Lion. Why are you only reporting her missing now?'

‘Because I didn't know she hadn't been home after she finished her shift on Wednesday night until Rick started calling last evening to ask where she was. See, she comes off shift at midnight, so I'm well asleep by the time she gets in – we have separate rooms, of course, in case you were wondering – and I'm off to work before she gets up, so we sometimes don't see each other for a day or two, except in passing and on weekends. So I didn't know there was anything wrong until Rick called. Rick Crowley, he's her boss, and he was in a right state. But then, Connie says he's always like that. But I wasn't particularly worried even then. It was only later, when I looked in her room and realized she hadn't been home at all, that I started to wonder. I'd left a magazine on her bed the night before for her to see when she came in, and it was still there exactly like I'd left it; it hadn't been moved.'

Sandra looked troubled. ‘I tried to call her on her mobile, but got no answer. I kept trying but she obviously didn't have it on because I wasn't getting anything back at all. By the time I went to bed I was getting really worried, but then I thought maybe her mum might know something, but I haven't been able to get hold of her. She and her husband are golfers, and they travel all over the place, and it's always hard to get hold of her.'

‘Where does her mother live?' Molly asked.

‘Bristol. She moved there when she got married again, must be seven or eight years ago. She's Mrs Donovan now.'

‘What about Connie's father? Does she have any brothers or sisters? Relatives of any kind?'

‘Her father disappeared after the divorce. Mind you, he's in the navy, or he was, so he was never home anyway. She's got a sister somewhere near London; I don't remember where, but I don't think Connie's been in touch with her for years.'

‘Has Connie ever done anything like this before? Disappeared without letting you know? Perhaps gone off with a boyfriend?'

‘Chance would be a fine thing,' the girl said with a grimace. ‘Poor old Con hasn't had a boyfriend for ages. Come to that, nor have I. Fine pair we are.' She shook her head. ‘No, she's never done that before, and that's why I'm a bit worried about her.' The catch in her voice suggested that Sandra was more than just a bit worried about her friend. ‘I know I should have done something sooner than this,' she continued, ‘because we always said we'd look out for each other, but I really didn't know she was missing till this morning. You do think she'll be all right, don't you, Sergeant? I read somewhere that most people who go missing turn up all right. Is that true?'

‘Generally speaking,' Tregalles said, then moved on quickly with another question. ‘When you were talking to Mr Crowley, did he say anything that might suggest Connie had asked for time off or anything like that?'

‘No. Not that she would have got it. All he was interested in was getting her in to work. He said she'd left at midnight the night before, and that was all he knew, and he seemed to think I was covering for her, because he swore at me a couple of times. So I stopped answering when he called again.'

‘How does Connie go back and forth to work?' Tregalles asked. ‘Does she have a car?'

‘Yes, she does. Sorry, didn't I say? It's gone as well. At least Rick says it isn't there, and it isn't at the flat.' She opened her bag and started rummaging through it. ‘Ah, here it is,' she said triumphantly. She handed Tregalles a piece of paper. ‘Her car and her mobile phone number is on there as well,' she said. ‘I thought you might need it. Oh, yes, and here's a picture of her. It's one she took of herself while she was messing about with her phone a couple of weeks back. I took it off her laptop before I came here this morning.'

‘Silver 2001 Renault Clio hatchback,
and
reg number,' he observed as he handed the paper and the picture of Connie Rice to Molly. ‘Very good, Sandra. Thank you. We'll get those descriptions out right away. Also, I'd like to have someone go with you back to your flat to take a look at Connie's room, her computer and other things. All right?'

‘No problem,' Sandra assured him. ‘I'm going back there myself.'

‘Just one thing before you go,' Molly said. ‘Is Connie a member of a choir? Or do you know if she was ever in a choir when she was younger?'

‘A choir? Connie? Shouldn't think so,' Sandra said. ‘She's never mentioned it to me, and I've never known her go to church since I've been sharing the flat with her, and that's going on three years now.'

Back in the incident room once more, Molly set the picture of Connie Rice beside that of the All Saints choir and scanned the faces of the girls. There were four of them. Three could be ruled out right away. But the fourth one . . . Molly brought out the magnifying glass. ‘What do you think?' she asked when Tregalles came over to take a look for himself. ‘Do you think it's the same girl?'

He bent closer to look, then straightened up shaking his head. ‘Could be, I suppose,' he said, but he sounded doubtful. ‘You could always run it by the Reverend Fulbright, but before you do that, perhaps we should make sure Connie Rice is really missing. I've just finished speaking to Connie's boss, Rick Crowley, and he tells me Connie was being chatted up that night by a man he's never seen before, and he left the bar not long before Connie did. So he thinks they may be shacked up somewhere, “shagging themselves blind” as he so colourfully put it.'

‘Or the man was our killer and she could be dead.'

‘Could be,' Tregalles conceded, ‘but the other victims have all been men, and I don't see a connection. Anyway, we're wasting time here, so I think we should split up. You go and talk to Crowley, and I'll go to the flat to see if there's anything there that might tell us where Connie Rice has gone.'

It was Rick Crowley himself who opened the door. ‘We open in an hour,' he said brusquely, when she introduced herself, ‘so I hope this isn't going to take up too much of my time. I had to bring my day man in last night when Con didn't show, so I'll be short-handed again today. There's just Anna and me here until Cliff – he's my day man – comes in at twelve, and Anna should be back in the kitchen getting ready for the lunch crowd.' He nodded towards the bar where a young woman was setting up a menu board. ‘Anyway, I told the bloke I spoke to on the phone everything I know, and I told him I think it's a waste of time. I don't think Con's missing at all. Well, not like really
missing
, if you know what I mean? I think she's—'

‘Yes, I was told what you think,' Molly cut in sharply, ‘but her flat-mate was concerned enough to report her missing, so we're taking that report seriously.'

The corners of Crowley's mouth turned down, ‘Yeah, yeah, the Palmer woman,' he said with exaggerated weariness. ‘It's like she thinks I had something to do with Con taking off.'

Crowley was short and heavy set. He stood with shoulders hunched and head thrust forward as if preparing for a fight, and, by the look of his face, he'd been in a few. His eyes were dark and probing, and they'd stripped Molly from head to toe within seconds of their meeting.

She took out her notebook. ‘You said Connie left at midnight on Wednesday. What sort of mood was she in before she left? Did she say anything to you?'

‘She didn't
say
anything,' Crowley said, ‘but she kept looking at the clock, and when midnight came around she was off like a shot.'

‘Where was her car parked?' Molly asked.

‘The far end of the car park next to the fence.' Crowley indicated the direction with his thumb.

‘Which means she would have to drive past the front door to get out onto the road, right?'

‘That's right.'

‘Did you hear or see her car go by? You must have been closing up by then.'

Crowley thought about that. ‘No, I didn't,' he said. ‘But then, I wouldn't, would I? I was still trying to get old George Peacock out, but he was bound he was going to finish his story about something that happened in the war. He's an old age pensioner who lives in the residence just up the road, so Connie would've been gone by the time I got him out.'

‘Were there any other cars in the car park?'

‘The lottery lot came by car,' Crowley said, ‘but I couldn't say about the others. Not many people come by car any more, they're afraid of being breathalysed.'

‘Were there other customers who left about the same time as Connie?'

‘No, everybody else had gone by then.'

‘Including the man you say was chatting her up?'

‘That's right.'

‘Can you describe him? Height, weight, approximate age?'

‘Could have been anywhere from thirty-five to early forties,' Crowley said. ‘Tallish. Close to six feet, I'd say. Well set up. Not fat, but solid, if you know what I mean. Looked like he could take care of himself.'

‘Hair colour?'

‘Sort of dark brown, I think.' Crowley's heavy brows came together in concentration. ‘I remember it was long in the back, and he was wearing a pullover. One of those high-necked ones. Turtle-neck, grey.'

‘Trousers?'

‘He had 'em, or I would have noticed otherwise,' Crowley said flippantly, ‘but I couldn't tell you what colour they were, if that's what you're after.'

‘What about his facial features? Since you haven't said otherwise, I assume he was white, but can you describe him for me? Eyes? Wide set or narrow? Eyebrows? Thick? Thin? Anything notable about his mouth, nose or chin? Any distinguishing marks? Scars, moles, tattoos?'

‘No, nothing like that,' Crowley said. ‘Actually, he wasn't a bad looking bloke, which made me wonder why he'd be chatting up the likes of Connie. I can sort of picture him in my head, but I can't say there was anything special about him. He was . . . well, ordinary.'

Molly sighed inwardly. So much for that! ‘What about his voice?' she asked. ‘Did you happen to overhear any of their conversation?'

‘No. Like I said, it was a quiet night. Connie was all right on her own in the bar, so I spent most of my time in the lounge. I didn't talk to him and I don't know exactly when he left, but he was gone when I looked in around half eleven. Con left on the dot of twelve, and the way she shot out of here I think she must have arranged to see him outside. That's probably why she kept looking at the clock after he'd gone. They're probably shacked up in some motel or other, and Con'll turn up all sorry for herself when he gets tired of her and kicks her out.'

‘Has Connie ever done anything like that before?'

‘Well, no, but she's always on the lookout for a man, and with her looks it's not as if she's going to get many chances, is it?' Crowley glanced at the clock above the bar. ‘Look,' he said, ‘I've answered all your questions, but I've still got a pub to run, so can I go now?'

‘Just a few more questions, Mr Crowley,' said Molly. ‘How long has Connie worked for you?'

Crowley squinted into the distance. ‘Must be going on three years, now,' he said, sounding surprised.

‘Good worker, is she?'

‘She's all right. Haven't had any complaints, so, yeah, I suppose you could say she's all right.'

‘And what about your own relationship with Connie, Mr Crowley?'

‘My relationship?' Crowley's eyes were suddenly guarded. ‘She's a barmaid,' he said. ‘I'm her boss; she works for me. At least she did, but I'm not sure I'll take her back if she's going to pull stunts like this.'

‘But what about your personal relationship,' Molly persisted. ‘Did you ever sleep with Connie?' It was a shot in the dark, but Crowley looked the type who would think every female was fair game.

‘Sleep with her . . .?' Crowley's voice rose. ‘What the hell sort of question is—?' He stopped, eyes narrowed. ‘It's that Palmer woman she lives with, isn't it? She told you, didn't she? She's the one who's stirring all this up. Bitch!'