All Passion Spent - Bergotte (pdf e book reader .txt) 📗

He liked to play the old standards, especially the music of Ellington. He started with Take the ‘A’ train, and then went into Perdido, followed by Chelsea Bridge. He then settled into Solitude, Sophisticated Lady and Concerto for Cootie. He sounded pretty good he thought, for somebody who had not touched the instrument in a while. The idea that he could make his own entertainment when he wanted to, and not sit gawping at a television set filled him with immense pleasure. “Bravo!” said Eve as he dutifully cleaned the instrument and carefully put it back in its case. “Yes, I’m resolved to play it again soon,” he murmured to himself. “And I’m resolved to get home,” said Eve, “I need a good night’s sleep. Thanks very much for a lovely evening… we must do it again soon… at my house.” They said their goodbyes. She collected her things and was gone very quickly, into the night.

Gerrard made himself a mug of cocoa and was thinking about going to bed when his phone rang again. He answered it in his customary manner, surprised to hear the voice of the locum pathologist.
“This is Stephen Ray… I’m sorry to disturb you at home but I have something that can’t wait any longer.”
“I’ve waited long enough already.”
“I know and I do apologise.”
“Well, what is this something which can’t wait any longer?”
“Mrs Fellingham was stabbed.”
“Stabbed? With what?”
“Probably, a nail file, a metal nail file.”
“Where was she stabbed?”
“In the back of the neck, at the base of the skull.”
“When did you discover this?”
“Earlier today.”
“When exactly?”
“At lunchtime or shortly after, when I had seen your assistant, the young lady, Sergeant Rossi.”
“And you have waited all this time to tell us!” thundered Gerrard.
“I’m sorry but I was feeling too ill earlier on to do anything. The autopsy report will be with you first thing tomorrow morning.”

“You may have jeopardised the investigation.”
“I’ve said I’m sorry, and there’s nothing more I can do or say,” said Dr Ray firmly and rang off. Gerrard held the receiver to his chest for a few moments and then slammed it down. This investigation was proving to be very trying. ‘Here we are, five or six days after the murder with no witnesses to speak of, no suspects and no leads. Unless Anna Rossi turns up something important, we look pretty silly. We’ve absolutely nothing to go on.’

He was tired and irritable. He wanted to sleep. He rang Anna on her mobile. There was no answer. Perhaps she had gone to bed. He tried again. Still no answer. His patience had worn very thin by now. Perhaps he ought to do what he was going to do and go to bed himself, but he wanted Anna to have this information, because in a way it changed the whole nature of the case. If Mrs Fellingham had been stabbed it could have been no accident; it was murder. He tried to ring Anna again. This time she answered. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you,” he said in an exasperated voice. Anna felt she needed to give a full explanation. “My battery on the phone was flat and I was recharging it. I really wasn’t expecting any calls at this time of night, otherwise I would have left it switched on.” Gerrard told her the news. “We have to find someone who uses a nail file,” she said. “So, we’re looking for a woman,” asserted Gerrard. “Not necessarily,” said Anna. “Men use nail files.”
“Yes, I suppose so. I’ll see you in the morning early.”
“Yes sir, but I think you ought to know the outcome of my chat with Samantha, Samantha Bennett, in Bristol.”
“Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”
“I’ll give you all the details tomorrow. sir, but the girl handed me the watch and phone that belonged to Laura Fellingham and she also gave me, rather reluctantly, the address of the young man who took them from her.”
“Excellent,” said Gerrard, “well done, Anna.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow, sir.”
“Yes,” said Gerrard, “goodnight.”


CHAPTER TEN

Thursday, October 26: morning

Dr Ray was as good as his word. After a good night’s sleep, Peter Gerrard arrived at the police station early to find the pathologist’s report waiting for him on his desk and Anna Rossi sitting nearby, anxious to learn its contents.

“Good morning,” he said, as he sat down, taking hold of a paper knife and slitting open the buff envelope in front of him. “You got here early,” he commented. “You asked me to be here early, sir,” said Anna. He made no reply, but sat motionless for several minutes in silence, reading. At length, without a word, he handed the document to his colleague. She took it and read it eagerly. It told her that the forensic post-mortem showed that the deceased had suffered a fractured skull and dislocated collarbone. “Mrs Fellingham must have taken quite a knock when she was struck by the car and hit the deck,” said Anna. “Yes, as it says, she would probably have died from these injuries if left unattended,” said Gerrard, “but we now know for certain that the cause of death was the stab wound to the neck. It says that ‘trauma was present internally in the stab wound from blunt force but after a detailed examination of the organ systems, no internal trauma was found.’ I can’t understand how Stephen Ray could miss a stab wound when he first looked at the body. There must have been a considerable amount of blood. He couldn’t have confused it with the blood from the head wound could he? It seems to me that he has been grossly negligent. Anyway, the question is … why would anyone want to do such a thing as stab Mrs Fellingham? We now know it was murder, not just a car accident, but what is the motive for such a murder?”

“I don’t know sir,” Anna replied, “but the girl I talked to last night, Samantha Stone, is the girlfriend of the young man, Tommy, who found Laura Fellingham lying injured in the road and carried her into Sydney Gardens. I had a long talk with her. She’s given us a good deal of useful information, including Tommy’s address.”
“We need to find him without delay.”
“I’ve already asked uniform to find him.”
“There’s some forensic evidence according to this report,” said Gerrard, having just picked up another document from his desk. “It says they’ve found blood on leaves, twigs and other bits of wood and footprints, but no murder weapon, no nail file or sharp instrument.” “The murderer probably took it with him or her,” said Anna. “Do you think Tommy isn’t the murderer?” asked Gerrard. “According to Sam, Tommy left the victim alive, alive but unconscious.”

While the two detectives were mulling over the new developments and writing their reports on recent events, two constables in a police car were on their way to call on Mr Mattheson at his temporary address in Twerton. They drove along the Lower Bristol Road and took a left turn up Jews Lane to Lansdown View. They turned again and found the house they were seeking. Unfortunately, however, they were not able to locate Tommy. The other residents of that rundown accommodation in Twerton told them that he had left the premises very early that morning, taking very little with him, but then, he didn’t possess very much.
“Do you have any idea where he was going?” one of the two constables asked. “I think he was off to London,” said an oldish man from a dark corner. “He didn’t say which way he was going to London by any chance?” “No, he didn’t.” The two constables returned to their patrol car and decided to look for him in the M4 motorway service stations. They cruised up and down for an hour or more but they did not spot him. “We’d better get in touch with Wiltshire Constabulary,” said the driver.

It had already crossed Tommy’s mind that the police would look for him at motorway service stations. H had decided to try his luck hitching a ride on the main road, the A4 to London. Starting just after six o’clock in the morning he tramped through the city, emerging at Cleveland Bridge, from where he walked along the London Road with his thumb out; past Snow Hill flats until he reached a small group of shops at the Balustrade. There, a van stopped and Tommy got in and told the driver he was heading for London. “I’m only going as far as Chippenham, mate,” said the driver. “Okay, please drop me off there on the main road.”
“What you going to London for?” asked the driver, trying to make conversation.
“I want to settle down there and get a job, I’m fed up of living where I’ve been living.”
“And where’s that?”
“In Bristol and then in Bath.” When he reached his destination the driver stopped the van and let Tommy out. He shivered in the cold breeze of the early morning. October days were drawing to a close and it would soon be winter. There might still be bright sunshine in the last few weeks of autumn, but today was dull and Tommy had to fight hard mentally to keep up his spirits.

In Chippenham he tried hitching a ride once more, but no one stopped. He had been standing there an hour. He walked on a little way and then saw a car, an old Astra, parked up a side street. A window had been left slightly open. He managed with great difficulty to slip his hand in and open a door. Within a few moments he was sitting in the driving seat and quickly hot-wiring the engine. He tried starting it and it fired immediately. He carefully eased it into gear and released the handbrake, took his foot gently off the clutch and accelerated. The car pulled away erratically. He did not want to attempt any difficult manoeuvres such as turning round, so he went by way of the back streets until he found his way on to the A4.

He drove through Calne in the direction of Marlborough. He had been travelling for about twenty minutes when he caught sight of a police car in his rear-view mirror. There was no reason why the police car should have paid any attention to him. Tommy panicked. He accelerated hard and almost lost control as he negotiated a bend in the road. He had never driven a car before. As he was leaving Calne, Tommy glanced in his mirror once more and saw the police car with headlights flashing, obviously pursuing him. He heard the siren wailing, as the police car began to gain on him. He ignored the speed limit and pushed his foot down hard on the accelerator.
In the early morning open countryside there was nothing on the road in front of him going in his direction. As he accelerated away from the police car he began to look for some means of losing them by turning off sharply down a side road. Nothing suitable came into view. He drove on, glancing at the speedometer from time to time. It read 70 mph, then 75, and then hovered at 80. The following police car had fallen behind now. Tommy thought that there was a good chance that he would be able to shake off his pursuers soon. He saw the roundabout rather late, but managed to brake hard and negotiate his way round it, though he found it a very frightening experience.

He soon left Silbury Hill and the Long Barrow behind him and pushed on towards Fyfield.