The Cold Hand of Malice (37 page)

‘I told you why. Molly asked me not to tell anyone, and I could see she was a little nervous about being under Paget’s eagle eye, so I agreed. And I don’t see why you’re making such a big thing out of it, Tregalles.’

‘I’m not.’ The denial sounded feeble even to him. ‘It’s just that it took me by surprise, that’s all.’ Now that he knew what had been going on, he felt more than a little foolish about the way he’d allowed his imagination to run wild. Audrey had told him he was being silly, and she’d been right, and all he wanted to do now was drop the subject.

‘Anyway, got to get the team together,’ he said briskly, glad of any excuse to get away from the grizzled sergeant’s probing eyes, while silently damning the man for keeping him in the dark. And enjoying it, he thought angrily. Well, chalk one up for the crafty old devil. There would be other days.

Muttering that it wouldn’t do the reputation of the place a lot of good when people saw the police going through the place, the manager of the block of flats in Caledonia Street examined the search warrant closely before using his pass-key to open the door to Peggy Goodwin’s flat.

‘Just be thankful we’re not in uniform,’ Tregalles told him, and while the others went inside, he accompanied the manager back to his own flat, where he questioned him about Peggy Goodwin.

The manager’s name was Lewis Corbett. He was a lean, middle-aged, wolfish-looking man with piercing eyes, and dyed black hair combed straight back. He’d been the manager there for almost ten years, he said, and claimed there wasn’t much he didn’t know about his tenants. His flat was on the ground floor next to the front entrance, where he could watch the comings and goings of the tenants from his front window.

‘That’s why I have my table where it is,’ he explained. ‘I have all my meals there. They’re a pretty good lot, by and large, but I like to keep a friendly eye on them, so to speak.’

‘What about Miss Goodwin?’ Tregalles asked. ‘What can you tell me about her?’

‘Ah, now, there’s a close one,’ he said. ‘Working all the time, she is, so I don’t see much of her as a rule. Hardly ever goes out again once she’s home. Why? What’s she done?’

Tregalles didn’t answer. Instead, he went to the window to take a look for himself. ‘There must be a back door,’ he observed. ‘Aren’t there lock-up garages at the back of the building?’

‘That’s right, but that back door is an emergency exit only. It’s on the door in big letters plain as day. You can go out that way, but you can’t come back in. It’s a matter of security. That’s why it’s alarmed. See?’ He pointed to a light on the wall just inside his own door. ‘That light blinks when the door is open, and there’s an alarm bell – well, more like a buzzer, really – in the stairwell. I’d know if anyone tried to use it – which they do the odd time if they have something big or heavy to bring in or take out – but that’s all right as long as they let me know so I can turn the alarm off.’

‘When was the last time that happened?’ Tregalles asked.

Corbett thought back. ‘Can’t remember, exactly,’ he said. ‘I think it was around Christmas last year when number seventeen had a new bed delivered. The road was dug up out front for work on the water mains, so they had to bring it in the back.’

‘Let’s take a look at the door,’ Tregalles said.

‘Can if you want,’ said Corbett, ‘but there’s not much to see.’

Corbett led the way to the back of the building and stopped in front of a heavy metal door. ‘There, see?’ he said. ‘Emergency Exit. You just push down on the bar and it opens.’ He demonstrated as he spoke, pushing hard on the bar. ‘Heavy brute,’ he muttered as the door swung open.

Tregalles didn’t reply. He was listening, head on one side. ‘Didn’t you say an alarm goes off when you open the door?’ he asked.

Corbett’s heavy brows drew together in a frown as he closed the door and opened it again. ‘That’s funny,’ he said. ‘Never done that before. Bit of dirt in the contacts, I expect.’

‘When did you last check if it was working?’ the sergeant asked.

‘It’s been a while,’ the man hedged. ‘I mean it’s not the sort of thing you do, is it? We’ve never had any trouble with it before.’

‘How long ago is “a while”?’

The man screwed up his face, looked up at the mechanism at the top of the door, then shrugged. ‘Probably not since number seventeen used it,’ he admitted.

Tregalles nodded. ‘I think we should take a closer look and find out exactly why that alarm isn’t working,’ he said. ‘Because we may find that the light in your flat isn’t going on either, which could mean that you wouldn’t know if anyone has been in or out of here recently.’

Tregalles placed his hands against the door and pushed. It was, as Corbett said, a heavy door, spring loaded for automatic closing. He pushed harder.

‘You have to use the bar . . .’ Corbett began, then frowned as the door opened.

Tregalles pushed it wider, then stepped outside. ‘Someone has taped the latch so it doesn’t catch when the door is shut,’ he said. ‘And I suspect there is more than a bit of dirt between those contacts. In other words, Mr Corbett, anyone can come and go through here whenever they please without fear of being caught.’

The sign in the window said Closed. In fact none of the shops in Bishop’s Gate opened until ten o’clock, so there were very few people about when Ormside led the team down the narrow passageway between the shop and the one next door to the back door of Mrs Johnson’s card and gift shop.

He was still somewhat bemused as to why he was there at all, in spite of Paget’s explanation. ‘Goodwin’s mother is in a wheelchair,’ he’d said, ‘and this is going to come as quite a shock to her, so I’d like someone who is closer to her age to lead in this case. Do you have a problem with that, Len?’

‘Well, no,’ he’d said, but the normally unflappable sergeant suddenly felt nervous; he hadn’t been on active duty on the streets in years, preferring to sit in what he thought of as the centre of the web, controlling and directing operations from there. He’d tried to make a joke of it. ‘I know we’re short-staffed, but I don’t think we’re quite that desperate yet, are we, sir?’

‘Look, Len,’ Paget said patiently, ‘we are going to have to tell her that her daughter is about to be arrested for two cold-blooded murders and possibly three. The woman is going to be devastated, and I don’t know how her health is. She may even be frail, so I want someone there who understands that and will make allowances – at least up to a point.’

Ormside took a deep breath and knocked on the back door.

The man who opened the door was about sixty. Solidly built, he had a lean and weathered face, a receding hairline and a short beard. ‘Yes,’ he said in answer to Ormside’s formal question, his name was Arthur Johnson, but his expression turned from one of mild curiosity to one of disbelief as Ormside told him who he was and why they were there.

‘You want to do
what
?’ Johnson demanded. ‘You’re really serious? You want to
search
this place? Why? What do you think is going on here? I think you’ve come to the wrong house, mate.’ He stepped back and began to close the door.

Ormside braced his foot against the door. ‘There is no mistake, Mr Johnson,’ he said. ‘We have reason to believe that we will find evidence here that will assist us with our enquiries into the death of Laura and Simon Holbrook. Now, please stand aside. I don’t want to have to arrest you for obstruction.’

‘What’s going on there, Arthur?’ A woman in a wheelchair came into sight behind the man. ‘Who are these people? What do they want?’

‘It’s the police, love, and they say they have a warrant to search the house and shop. Something to do with Peg’s boss and his wife being killed. I don’t understand it at all. What’s our house got to do with them two murders?’

Ormside moved forward, forcing Johnson to step back and allowing the rest of the team to move in and fan out through the rooms.

‘You can’t just come in here like that!’ the woman screamed. ‘This is our house; our shop. You can’t go through!’

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Johnson, but I’m afraid we can,’ Ormside told her. ‘It’s not that we believe that you or your husband have done anything wrong, but I’m afraid the same can’t be said for your daughter. We will be taking away every bit of clothing she may have left here, as well as anything belonging to her we deem relevant. I also need to look at the records of all the dogs you have kept here over the past three months. The breed, the dates they were here in your care, and the names and addresses of every owner.’

‘I’ve never heard such a load of rubbish in my . . .’ the woman began, but her words were cut off by the sound of several dogs barking at once. ‘There, now! See what they’ve done? They’ve gone and upset the dogs.’ She swung the wheelchair around and started toward the door, but Ormside grabbed the chair and swung it around so the woman was facing him.

‘Look, Mrs Johnson,’ he said quietly, ‘I don’t like this any more than you do, but this is a legal search, and unpleasant as it may be, it will be much easier on everyone if you will just let us do our job.’

‘And what if I don’t?’ she snapped.

Ormside sighed deeply as he looked down at her. ‘Then I’m afraid my instructions are to take you and your husband into custody and down to Charter Lane for further questioning to find out what it is you have to hide.’

‘You wouldn’t dare!’

Ormside shrugged. ‘I would prefer not to,’ he admitted, ‘but I will if necessary.’

‘Arthur?’ She turned to her husband for support. ‘Can’t
you
do something to convince these people that they’re barking up the wrong tree?’

‘I don’t think so, love,’ he said quietly. ‘I think the sergeant’s right; there’s no use fighting them. They have a warrant, so they’ll get what they want whether we like it or not.’

Mrs Johnson threw up her hands. ‘Useless!’ she said bitterly. ‘Might as well talk to the wall for all the good it does me to talk to you. That’s my Peggy they’re talking about. My
daughter
, in case it’s slipped your mind. If I weren’t stuck in this bloody chair . . .’ She was shaking with rage as she turned on Ormside.

So much for the woman being frail, the sergeant thought.

‘You’ll find nothing!’ she told him. ‘Nothing! And you’re all mad if you think Peg had anything to do with those deaths.’ She glared at Ormside. ‘Where is she now?’

‘Being taken into custody,’ Ormside told her.

‘You’ll be sorry for this,’ the woman warned. ‘Peggy’s done nothing wrong.’

‘In that case she’ll be released,’ Ormside said. The sergeant saw hope flare in her eyes. ‘But I think it might be best if you don’t count too heavily on that,’ he added, not unkindly. ‘I’m afraid the evidence against her is very strong indeed.’

Thirty-Three

If Peggy Goodwin was guilty of anything, it certainly didn’t show in her demeanour as she faced Paget across the table. She’d remained silent, lips compressed as if physically holding in her anger throughout the journey in the police car to Charter Lane, but she’d objected strenuously to the Custody Office’s questions, and had refused point blank to sign a copy of the custody record informing her of her rights. And she had remained silent from that point on until the recorder was set in motion, and she was asked to state her name.

‘I’ll do no such thing,’ she flared. ‘And as for this ridiculous charge, I think—’

‘You have not been charged with anything as yet, Miss Goodwin,’ Paget cut in coldly. ‘You have been arrested on suspicion of murdering Laura Holbrook and Simon Holbrook, and you are here to answer questions regarding those murders. Your office, and your flat are being searched as we speak, as are the premises occupied by your mother in Bishop’s Gate. You are entitled to have legal representation or someone of your choice present if you wish, but you are not leaving here until this interview is concluded to my satisfaction. Do I make myself clear, Miss Goodwin?’

‘Yes,’ she said with exaggerated weariness, ‘you make yourself very clear, Chief Inspector, and I don’t need representation, legal or otherwise, because I’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘In that case, please state your full name for the record.’

‘Margaret Diane Goodwin – alias
Peggy
Goodwin,’ she added sarcastically.

‘We’re not here to play games, Miss Goodwin,’ Paget warned. ‘We are here to establish who killed two people.’ He nodded to Tregalles, who pushed several clear plastic evidence bags across the table. Paget separated them and placed one in front of Peggy Goodwin. ‘Miss Goodwin is being shown a set of keys, item number eleven of the contents of her handbag,’ he said for the benefit of the tape. ‘These are your keys, are they not, Miss Goodwin?’

Peggy shrugged. ‘Yes, they are my keys, Chief Inspector,’ she agreed with exaggerated weariness, ‘but I don’t see—’

‘And this is the one,’ he continued, pointing to a bronze-coloured key, ‘you used to gain entry to the house the night Laura was killed. Right, Miss Goodwin?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous! I had nothing to do with Laura’s death, and I have no idea what makes you think I did. Yes, I have a key to the house, but I’ve never had a reason to use it. And Simon didn’t give it to me; Laura gave it to me when both she and Simon were going to be away on a business trip.’

‘I thought it was Moira Ballantyne who had a key,’ said Paget. ‘Why would Laura give you one when Moira only lives three houses away?’

‘That was for a totally different reason’ Peggy said impatiently. ‘Moira looked after the plants and the post, things like that. The key Laura gave me was for business reasons. Both she and Simon used to take work home with them, and Laura thought someone should have access to the house and her computer in case she had to call for information for one of her business meetings. There never was a need to use it, but that was Laura, always trying to cover any and every eventuality.’

‘Have you ever been inside the Holbrooks’ house?’

‘Once or twice, yes.’

‘When was the last time?’

‘Last Christmas. They had an open house for the staff and a few friends.’

‘Now, Simon Holbrook telephoned you from his mobile at 7.03 on the evening of Wednesday, March the fourth. Do you remember that?’