A Well-deserved Murder (Trevor Joseph Detective series) (2 page)

Back in his car he headed for a B-road that wound through the hills. The motorway would have been faster but he’d heeded the caller’s warning not to use it. He had to concede it was easier to spot a second car or a tail if you were watching a country road. Twice he heard helicopters overhead and wondered if whoever had phoned him could afford to rent one.

Deciding he was paranoid, he turned off the road and on to a lane that led to a well-known beauty spot. After nine miles of winding track he pulled into a picnic area. He drove slowly around the perimeter to check it was as deserted as it appeared to be. Eventually he parked beneath a tree at the furthest point from the entrance because it gave a clear view of both the area and the approach road. He turned off his ignition, gazed blindly at the rain-sodden scene and mulled over the telephone call that had brought him here. After a few minutes he opened his briefcase and pulled out one of the notepads that was never far from his side.

‘
You want a scoop?’

‘
Every journalist wants a scoop.’

‘
I know where the beauty queen is.’

‘
Where?’

‘
Not in a rich Arab’s harem.’

‘
I never thought she was. So, where is she?’

‘
You think I’ll tell you on the phone.’

‘
How do I know you’re not a crank caller?’

‘
Because she has a birthmark on the top of her right thigh.’

‘
You can see it on every photograph of her taken during the swimsuit finals.’

‘
Can you see the one that runs into her pubic hair?’

There was no way of checking the information, as the caller undoubtedly knew. It was every journalist’s dilemma. A story he was ninety-nine per cent certain was crap, but the one per cent dangled like the promise of a lottery win – with about the same odds.

‘
You want a scoop you have to pay for it.’

‘
You get nothing until I know your information is genuine.’

‘
Meet me at the picnic spot on the north side of Connor’s lake. You know it?’

‘
Why not somewhere closer?’

‘
Because that is close – for me. Take the scenic route not the motorway.’

‘
You want me to drive on B-roads?’

‘
I need to know no one is following you. I’ll be there between seven and nine tonight. Don’t look for me; I’ll find you and if I see the police or anyone else besides you there, you won’t see me.’

Alan closed his notepad and reached into the back of the car for the sleeping bag. He unzipped it, threw it over himself, snuggled down in his seat and waited … and waited … and waited …

Alan woke with a start. It was pitch black and hailstones were thundering on the roof of his car. Shivering, he peered into the darkness. He could make out nothing beyond the white blur hitting the windscreen. He switched on the ignition and his headlights. The car park yawned back at him, shadowy, empty and iced with white frost. He turned on the fan and heater and looked at his clock – nine thirty. The peculiar robotic voice echoed in his head.

‘
I’ll be there some time between seven and nine tonight. Don’t look for me; I’ll find you and if I see the police or anyone else besides you there, you won’t see me.’

‘Bloody lunatic!’ He wasn’t sure if he was cursing himself or the hoax caller. He allowed the car a few minutes to warm up before driving slowly around the picnic area again. Reluctantly he pulled away the sleeping bag and tossed it onto the back seat, fastened his seat-belt and drove away.

The hail and rain had stopped and a full moon was shining, pale and waxy when Alan drove down his cul-de-sac at eleven o’clock. When he and Joy had moved in some thirty-five years before, they’d taken the trouble to get to know the neighbours, but most of the friends they’d made had long since moved on, and he’d lacked the will to make the acquaintance of the families who had replaced them.

Without realising it, he had become more and more isolated within his own street. Driving from house to work and back, spending what little free time he had with colleagues, work contacts, police and “sources”. Since Joy had died, the house had become no more than a place to eat, sleep, and get drunk in after a day’s work. And, given his immediate neighbours – an increasing source of irritation.

The light was switched on outside the garish shed his neighbours had erected on their monstrous oversized deck. It had been deliberately placed to shine directly into his living-room, necessitating yet more expenditure on thicker blinds and curtains. He parked his car in front of his drive. Since he’d erected a five-foot fence between them, he rarely bothered to open the wooden gates and put his car in the garage.

He stepped out, locked his car and went inside, heading straight for the kitchen and the fridge-freezer. Taking a can of lager from the fridge, he opened it, poured it into a glass and walked up to the woodland patio he and Joy had sat out on almost every spring, summer and autumn night – until their neighbours had built their edifice overlooking it.

He tried to ignore his neighbours’ deck as he walked down to the fence that backed on to the woods but it proved impossible. The halogen lamp glared, blinding him. He recalled all the summer evenings he and Joy had sat out here, sharing a bottle of wine and watching the wildlife in the woods. No foxes or badgers would go near that light. It was as though the idiots next door were hell-bent on despoiling and tainting everything around them. Petty, ugly people leading petty ugly lives.

He looked at the illuminated decking in front of the shed his neighbours grandly referred to as a “summer-house”. There was a pool of red on the planking. It stood proud, in glaring contrast to the blue and yellow painted wood. Something was lying on it, something pale … white … tendrils of dark hair spattered with black and red globules … an axe …

The images knitted together forming a picture. He reached for his mobile and dialled 999.

CHAPTER THREE

‘He is adorable. I can’t wait to have one of my very own.’ Daisy Sherringham tenderly stroked the cheek of Trevor and Lyn Joseph’s two-month-old son with the back of her finger as he lay in her arms.

‘That can be arranged. But it will take time and effort,’ Peter Collins said dryly.

‘He’s not so adorable at four in the morning,’ Trevor complained. ‘We haven’t had a night’s sleep since he arrived.’

‘Who wants sleep?’ Lyn leaned over Daisy’s shoulder and gazed at her son. ‘You’re gorgeous aren’t you, Wumpelstilskin? You’re goochy goochy gorgeous …’

‘Do you think women ever gooed like that over us?’ Peter asked Trevor as they watched Lyn join Daisy in blatant baby adoration.

‘Trevor, perhaps, but not you,’ Daisy answered. The telephone rang. ‘Goodnight, Trevor. Don’t wake me up when you come stumbling in at four in the morning, Peter.’

‘Who says it’s work?’ Peter topped up his glass from the bottle at his elbow.

‘Who else would it be at this hour?’ Daisy answered. ‘But look on the bright side; at least we managed an entire dinner party this time. Don’t worry, Peter, I can travel home in a taxi by myself. I’m a big girl now.’

Trevor picked up the receiver. ‘Trevor Joseph.’ He frowned as he listened. ‘I’ve had a couple of drinks. Send a car and driver. I’ll be with you as soon as it gets here.’

‘Trouble?’ Peter looked at him.

‘Could be. Want to come?’

‘Don’t I always?’

‘Might be interesting.’

‘Why?’ Peter shrugged on his coat.

‘A body has been found in the street where your friend the journalist lives.’

‘He’s my cousin, not friend. I had lunch with him today and all he did was complain about his neighbours. Perhaps they stole one thing too many from him and he finally snapped.’

‘I hope you’re joking.’

‘You didn’t hear him go on – and on – and on – about them.’

‘Let’s look at the evidence before we start on the theories, shall we?’ Trevor kissed Lyn and dropped a kiss onto his baby’s head. ‘See you in the morning, sweethearts.’

‘Marty won’t thank you for calling him that when he’s older.’ Peter kissed the cheek Daisy offered. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

‘Why don’t you stay here tonight, Daisy?’ Lyn suggested.

‘Thank you, but I need my car.’ She deposited the baby carefully in Lyn’s arms. ‘I’m operating before nine in the morning. Skin grafts on a burn victim. Poor mite’s only four years old.’

‘Oh no! What Happened? No, don’t tell me, I can’t bear the thought of a child being hurt. Motherhood does that to you. It makes all children’s pain, even ones you don’t know, somehow personal.’

‘I can imagine. And, after work, four of us are leaving for a medical conference. In New York. So if you need any American shopping …’

‘Conference,’ Peter sneered. ‘You’re off for a jolly and a shopping trip.’

‘Anything to get away from you and your moods, darling,’ Daisy mocked him.

Trevor flicked the blinds. ‘Driver’s here. We’ll drop you off on the way, Daisy.’

‘Thank you. It’s kind of you to think of me. Peter never does.’

‘I heard that.’ Peter returned from the hall with his jacket.

‘You were meant to.’ Daisy picked up her wrap and handbag. ‘Thank you for a lovely dinner. Our turn next.’

‘It’ll have to wait until the case is closed,’ Lyn warned.

The forensic team had already arrived and were erecting tenting, screens and spotlights in the garden of a house at the end of the cul-de-sac. Trevor wondered why they’d bothered with spotlights. The halogen lights that illuminated the decking area were brilliant and could be seen from the road, although the decking itself was partially screened by the back of the house.

He climbed into the paper overalls and overshoes a young constable, Sarah Merchant, handed him.

‘You’re here bright and early,’ he commented.

‘Chris and I were on duty, sir, we took the call.’

‘Trevor, nice to see you back in home territory. I feel safer walking the streets knowing you’re around.’ Patrick O’Kelly, the on-call pathologist was sitting in the boot of his hatchback, pulling on his boots.

Trevor zipped up his overall and joined Patrick. ‘Your sense of humour never changes.’

‘Thank you.’

‘It wasn’t a compliment,’ Trevor said. ‘Had a chance to have a look yet?’

‘Only the digital photographs the first officer on the scene took. Axe in head. Looks simple, but as you know …’

‘The ones that look simple never are.’ Peter glanced towards his cousin’s garden. On the patio, overlooked by the neighbours’ monstrous five-foot-high deck and even more monstrous shed, he could make out the shadowy figures of Alan and a uniformed officer.

Patrick followed his line of sight. ‘That’s the neighbour who spotted the body and called the emergency services.’ He left the back of the hatchback, slammed the door and shouted to his assistant, Jenny.

Trevor watched Patrick and Jenny skirt around the house and approach the deck. They were careful to walk on the plastic sheets the forensic team had used to cover the drive and garden. Sarah appeared at his side, notebook and pencil in hand.

‘I telephoned the station and told them to set up an incident room, sir.’

‘Thank you, we’ll need as many officers as can be spared at first light to carry out a fingertip search of the garden,’ he said, as they followed Patrick to the raised deck.

‘Yes, sir,’ she scribbled as she walked.

‘Arrange interviews with all the neighbours. I know it’s late but try and get them done in the next twenty-four hours while their minds are fresh. I’d like you to correlate the evidence as it comes in.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you for your confidence.’

‘Thank you for being efficient.’ Trevor looked back down the street. ‘There are how many houses here? – Twenty?’

‘Twenty-two, sir.’

‘I want every house visited, even the ones at the far end. Find out who is the …’

‘Busybody of the street, sir?’

‘You learn fast. Did the victim live with anyone?’

‘Husband and children, sir.’

‘They at home?’

‘No sign of him or the children, sir.’

‘Was the house open?’

‘The back door wasn’t locked. No sign of a break-in, but if there was an intruder he could have walked in as we did. The house could be cleaner. It’s cluttered with the usual paraphernalia you’d expect from a family. Overflowing toy baskets. Bins of dirty washing in the kitchen. DVDs scattered around the machine. Clothes heaped on chairs in the bedrooms.’

‘Send forensics in to check out the house when they’ve finished with the shed, deck and garden.’

‘Will do, sir.’

Trevor glanced at his watch. ‘You said DC Brookes was here?’ Christopher Brookes, a young constable, had recently been seconded to serious crimes along with Sarah.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Everyone hates knocking on doors, especially at this time of night, but both of you go up and down the street now. Leave the ones that aren’t showing a light until morning, but visit every house that is. Ask if they saw or heard anything.’

‘Sir.’ Sarah left him.

Trevor walked up the garden towards the deck. Both deck and shed were massive, totally out of keeping with the scale of the garden. Sarah had mentioned children but it was far too large for a playhouse, more like a workshop or potting-shed for a keen gardener, but when he looked around all he saw was a scrubby lawn, balding in patches and borders of straggly perennials vying for space with weeds. Close up the shed was painted like an ice cream kiosk. Garish, lit up like an amusement arcade it wouldn’t have looked out of place in Disneyland or Blackpool.

‘No accounting for taste.’ Patrick was kneeling on the decking in front of the shed, examining the naked corpse of a woman through an oversized magnifying glass.

Trevor remained on the ground four and a half feet below him. ‘You talking about the victim or the garden?’

‘This make-shift theatre.’

Trevor stood back. Patrick was right. The decking was high enough to be a stage; open the front of the shed and you’d have a theatre.

‘Fifty to sixty years old, dyed brown hair, brown eyes, five feet four inches, birthmark on left breast and right leg, stretch marks on torso.’ Patrick didn’t look up from the magnifying glass.

‘Cause of death?’

‘Blow or blows to the head from the axe embedded in her skull. From the blood pattern and spray, she was alive at the initial impact. She also lifted her right hand, possibly in an attempt to protect her head. It’s severed at the wrist. But although there would have been considerable bleeding it didn’t contribute to her death.’

‘She was hit more than once?’

Patrick moved the magnifying glass up to her skull. He peered at the hair- and gore-clotted wounds. ‘There are three distinct and separate cuts, but the axe could have hit the same spots more than once. It looks likely given the width of the cuts and bone fragmentation at the edges of two of the wounds. Given the severity, she would have lost consciousness within seconds. Death from shock and bleeding would have been within minutes. But the attacker kept chopping. One of the cuts is
post mortem
.’

‘Frenzied attack?’

‘I’d say whoever did this wasn’t feeling very friendly towards the victim at the time of the assault.’

‘Thank you, Patrick.’ Trevor was cold, tired, and in no mood for any more of the pathologist’s humour. ‘Any sign of sexual assault?’

‘Not obviously so.’ Patrick sat back on his heels. ‘As you see, she’s naked but her clothes are hanging on hooks in the shed. Either she undressed herself or we have a neat and tidy killer. Both are possibilities. DNA and forensics might come up with something to help you decide which.’

‘Is there a hot tub?’

‘No, and no pool.’

‘No indications why she was naked?’

‘Perhaps she was a nudist or liked to give the neighbours a thrill. There has to be a reason why this shed was built on such a high platform.’

‘Like what?’

‘You’re the detective.’ Patrick looked down at the corpse. ‘No body piercing, not even earrings and no tattoos. Strange thing is I’d expect more blood after axe blows to the head. Any injury to the skull bleeds profusely. Also there are footprints and smudges on the deck around the injuries.’

‘Indicative of what?’ Trevor asked.

‘How would I know? It’s possible someone mopped up after she was killed but don’t take that as a given, I’m not into guessing.’

‘Why would anyone do that?’

‘I have absolutely no idea.’

‘Would the killer have been bloodstained?’

‘Could be if he wasn’t wearing protective clothing.’ Patrick rose cautiously to his feet and looked around. ‘Jenny, check we’ve photographed every inch of this site, will you?’ He jumped down off the platform, landing beside Trevor. ‘I’ve done all I can here. I’ll do the PM first thing in the morning.’

‘Time of death?’

‘You know I hate that question.’

‘And you know I have to ask. Any idea?’ Trevor pleaded.

‘It was a warm afternoon but the air temperature’s not far off freezing now and we had hailstones an hour or so ago. Rigor’s set in and the body’s wet. So I’ll venture that she’s been dead at least three to four hours. But it could have been earlier.’

‘Can’t you be more specific?’

‘No.’

Trevor knew better than to push Patrick. ‘Anything on who we should be looking for?’

‘Someone strong enough to wield an axe and crack her skull. Beyond that, at this stage I can’t help you.’

Trevor looked up and saw Peter talking to a uniformed constable and Alan Piper in the garden next door. ‘Thanks, Patrick, see you in the morning.’

‘I’ll keep the coffee and chocolate biscuits on ice.’ Patrick knew Trevor found his habit of storing his milk, coffee and snacks in mortuary drawers distasteful.

Trevor walked around to the drive next door. Peter met him at the gate.

‘Saw you coming.’

‘I heard Alan found the body.’

‘He saw it from his patio.’ Peter led the way around the house into the back garden.

‘You do realise you won’t be allowed to work on this case?’ Trevor checked with Peter.

‘Personal involvement and all that. Yes. But regulations can’t stop me from calling in on my cousin for a friendly family chat.’

Trevor looked at his watch but it was too dark to see the face.

‘We’re insomniacs,’ Peter said cheerfully. ‘Aren’t we, Alan?’

‘Hello, Trevor. Good to see you, wish it was under different circumstances.’

‘A quiet drink in a pub would be better.’ Trevor nodded to the officer who’d stepped back when he’d arrived. ‘They could do with some help to square off the garden next door in preparation for a search, Constable.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The constable walked away.

‘What time did you notice the body, Alan?’ Trevor steered the conversation firmly on a professional track.

‘I came home about eleven o’clock, went into the house, poured myself a beer and came straight up here. I suppose it would have been around ten past eleven.’

‘Back from where?’

‘A fool’s errand.’

‘You told me,’ Peter reminded. ‘You may as well tell him.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘I will,’ Peter warned.

‘I got a call this afternoon from someone who said he knew where the missing beauty queen was.’

‘The one the tabloid press would have us believe has been sold into white slavery?’ Trevor asked.

‘That’s the one. Whoever it was wanted me to meet them at Connor’s Lake.’

‘That’s over forty miles away.’

‘Fifty-five door to door,’ Alan corrected. ‘They said they’d be in the picnic area between seven and nine. I waited, no one showed.’

‘You saw no one.’

‘It was bucketing down hailstones. I suppose someone could have come and gone …’ He heard Peter snort. ‘All right I went to sleep.’

‘For how long?’ Trevor persisted.

‘An hour, maybe more.’

‘And before you drove up to Connor’s Lake?’

‘I was in court all morning following a rape case that was thrown out for lack of evidence. Then I had lunch with Peter in the Black Boar before returning to the office. And I stayed there until I drove to the lake.’