A Killing Resurrected by Frank Smith

his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘Sam might have been a bit on the sharp side when it came to business, but murder? No. Poor devil was devastated that day, and it was no act, believe me. Imagine, married nigh on thirty years, and you walk in and see that lot. It’s no wonder the poor sod went to pieces. And if you are suggesting that we didn’t do our job, back then, you’re dead wrong. We investigated every possibility, and I’m telling you, it was a robbery that went wrong, and that’s all it was.’
    Paget shook his head. ‘I’m not suggesting anything of the kind,’ he said, ‘but you must remember that the only information I’ve had to go on till now comes from the files, and these are some of the questions that came to mind. So I’m not looking to pick holes in your investigation; I’m looking to you to put me right about some of those questions.’
    â€˜Well . . .’ Rogers eyed Paget suspiciously. ‘So what else do you want to know?’ he asked.
    Paget hesitated. ‘I hate to keep going on about this,’ he said, ‘but what about Taylor himself? Were there ever any doubts about
why
Taylor was in the shop at that time?’
    Rogers scowled. ‘What do you mean by “any doubts”?’
    Paget avoided a direct answer. ‘How old was Taylor at that time?’
    Rogers thought for a moment. ‘Don’t know, exactly. Mid to late forties; something like that. Why?’
    â€˜And Emily Bergman?’
    â€˜About the same. Maybe a couple of years younger.’
    â€˜Attractive?’
    Rogers shrugged. ‘Not particularly,’ he said. ‘She was . . .’ He broke off sharply. ‘You’re not listening, are you?’ he said, now visibly annoyed. ‘I keep telling you, it was a robbery that went wrong. Taylor looked in to see if Sam was still there. That’s it. He’d done it many times before. I don’t know what you think you have to gain by making out it was more complicated than it was.’
    Undaunted, Paget asked another question. ‘Bergman had a part-time shop assistant, a woman by the name of Loretta Thompson, but she wasn’t there that morning. Do you recall why that was?’
    Rogers frowned. ‘As you say, she only worked part-time. They only called her in when things got busy.’
    â€˜Quite a bit younger than Sam Bergman, wasn’t she?’
    Rogers sighed. ‘So what are you suggesting now?’ he asked with exaggerated weariness. ‘That there was something going on between Sam and Loretta?’
    â€˜I have no idea,’ said Paget, ‘but I made a few enquiries before I came up here. Did you know that Sam Bergman had married again?’
    Rogers eyed him warily. ‘I know he sold his shop and moved away a few months after his wife died. Said he couldn’t bear to be in the place after that. Went somewhere south, I believe; don’t recall where, exactly, but if he’s married again, good luck to him, I say. Happen recently, did it?’
    Paget shook his head. ‘Christmas Eve that same year to Loretta Thompson. Less than four months after his wife died. And they didn’t go south; they opened another shop in Cambridge.’
    â€˜I have the results of the tests, and they confirm my own diagnosis, Tom. Marion has COPD, Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease. Emphysema in this case, and it is well advanced. I’m afraid there’s no other way to put it, Tom. Marion is in serious trouble.’
    Dr Joseph Miller took off his glasses and began to polish them. He was a tall, stoop-shouldered man, whose grey hair and craggy face made him look older than he really was. He had been the Alcotts’ family doctor for more than twenty years, and they had become friends, at least to the extent where they could talk freely to one another.
    The two men were standing at the window at the end of the