A Killing Resurrected by Frank Smith Read Free Book Online Page A

Wilmslow, not far from Manchester’s airport.
    â€˜But there’s no need to come all the way in to Wilmslow,’ he told Paget on the phone. ‘Best meet me at the Three Bells. You’ll be on expenses, so you can buy lunch. Cut over to Congleton and come up on the A34. It’s about five minutes north of Congleton on the left-hand side. You can’t miss it. Make it half twelve. It gets a bit crowded if you leave it any later. Tell me what you’re driving and I’ll keep an eye out for you.’
    Rogers was a big, ruddy-faced man, running to fat. ‘I’d have had you come to the house, but the wife’s away to her mother’s while I do some painting and wallpapering, and the place is in a bit of a mess,’ he explained when they met at the pub. ‘Besides, if it’s information you want, and it’s worth your while to come all the way up here, I reckon the least the old firm can do is buy me lunch. Still, fair’s fair, so I’ll buy the first round. Boddingtons bitter do you, will it?’
    â€˜Make mine a half,’ Paget told him. ‘I’ll be driving straight back after lunch.’
    â€˜Suit yourself,’ said Rogers, ‘but I’m having a pint.’ He nodded in the direction of the chalkboard above the bar. ‘I’d stay away from the scampi if I were you; all batter and no prawns. Hotpot’s always good, though. I’m having mine with chips. What about you?’
    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?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜I’ll come to that later,’ Paget promised, ‘but right now—’
    â€˜Who was this lad – the one who killed himself?’ Rogers broke in.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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