BURIED CRIMES: a gripping detective thriller full of twists and turns (18 page)

He turned and walked out of the door. Sophie nodded to herself, then slowly climbed the stairs back to the incident room. She beckoned to Turner and Marsh and walked to her office. As they reached the door she turned back and called to Rae to join them.

‘It was a trap, Harry,’ she said quietly to her former boss.’ He had it all planned. And you know what really angers me? He couldn’t care less about the case. As far as he’s concerned the fact that those children died twenty years ago means they’re not important. It’s his way of getting back at me, and getting even with Rae.’

Marsh looked worried. ‘We walked straight into it. I could kick myself. I couldn’t think of anything to say. Where does it leave us now? And where does it leave Rae?’

Sophie gave a thin smile. ‘Rae comes to work here on Monday morning, just as she would have done if that piece of nonsense hadn’t happened.’ Rae was standing behind them. ‘Did you hear that, Rae? That’s an order from me, your unit commander and the SIO of this case. This investigation proceeds as I outlined. Under no circumstances do we close the case until I say so. Wipe what you just heard DCS Dunnett say from your memory because it was of no importance whatsoever.’

Barry and Rae looked bemused. Harry Turner smiled and nodded, as if at some distant memory.

‘He might have meant what he said to come as a surprise, catch us on the back foot,’ Sophie continued. ‘But I’ve been expecting something like it from him for some time. That’s all I intend to say at the moment, other than that this evening’s shindig at the pub is still very much on.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Rae, you get back to work and Barry, can you look after our guest here for the rest of the afternoon? Take Harry through all the details we’ve discovered so far, and pick his brains. I have some entirely different business to attend to, so I’ll be out of contact for the next hour or so. I have some favours to call in, so I don’t want to be disturbed. Harry, can we have a few minutes alone? I think you can guess what I want to talk about.’

Chapter 25: At Finch Cottage

Saturday, week 3

Saturday mornings in the Freeman household usually revolved around the two children. Karen attended a local "Young Musicians" group while Paul went to sports practice during the football season. This caused the usual problem: the activities occurred at opposite ends of the town and at overlapping times. Jill was adamant that parental responsibilities should not be related to gender, so on most weekends she took Paul to football, and waited to watch the match. Philip dropped Karen off at the music rehearsal. This weekend Jill had asked to swap roles. After parking her car outside Karen’s music venue she walked towards the town centre. She was feeling restless and edgy. The euphoria she’d experienced in the middle of the week had faded. Like an addict, she was already desperate for another fix. But that wasn’t likely to happen until Monday. Until then she was stuck with her dull husband and needy children.

She stopped, horrified. How could she think such things? Her children meant the world to her, and Philip was just the kind of caring and thoughtful husband that many of her friends would die for. What was going on in her head? If this was the effect a love affair had on her, maybe she should end it now. It had started as a fun experiment, but it had got out of control. It seemed to have created a void at the centre of her being in the place of warmth and family love. What was wrong with her? She knew the answer almost before she’d formed the question. Her newfound love life was making her totally self-obsessed, interested only in immediate pleasure. Wrong, wrong, wrong, Jill thought. But how gloriously wrong!

She wandered along the street, window shopping and seeing nothing she wanted to buy until she came to a small boutique. And there in the window was the most gorgeous lingerie set, a bra and panties in soft pink with pale blue polka dots, and at a reduced price. The price tag said that a matching camiknickers set was also available. Jill opened the door and walked in, turning to look more closely at the displayed garments in the window. The fabric was silky, even lovelier close up than from the pavement outside. Just the kind of underwear that her lover would appreciate. She smiled at the shop assistant and asked if there was a complete set in her size. Jill tried them on for a comfort check. She came out of the shop some twenty minutes later with a prettily wrapped package in her hand and made for the nearest coffee shop. There she sent a text message telling her secret lover about her purchase. Maybe a tryst could be arranged after all. She glanced at her watch and made her way back to the music venue. After dropping her purchases into the boot, she made her way inside, just in time to hear the ten minute performance that followed each Saturday morning practice. Karen looked happy, cheerfully chatting to her friends in the clarinet section of the wind band. She waved to her mother before the short performance started.

Later that morning the sun came out and it grew warm. Jill and Karen arrived home first. They hauled the barbecue unit from the back of the shed, searched out a bag of charcoal, a pack of firelighters and proceeded to set fire to the coals. When the men arrived home shortly after midday everything was ready to go. Jill knew better than to start cooking. The barbecue is an exclusively male preserve. Boys and fire. Women should not attempt to come between them. Jill had read that it was almost ritualistic, a return to prehistoric times. Apart from the beer, that is. But she had to admit, Philip was an extremely competent barbecue cook, and their lunch, out on the lawn, was very tasty.

The children wandered off and Philip asked, ‘how was Karen this morning?’

‘She was fine. I think she’s back to normal. I called her tutor yesterday afternoon and she said that Karen seemed much more at ease this week. I think she’s over the worst.’

‘I’ll be glad when the whole thing’s over. It shook me up more than I’d care to admit. I can’t say I’m over it. I can still see her holding that little hand. It keeps popping into my head when I least expect it.’ He looked at Jill. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’ve seemed a bit distant recently. Not your normal self. I suppose we’ve all been under a lot of strain, but I thought I noticed it before all this started. Last month, before the weather started getting warmer.’

‘Your imagination, Phil. Either that or I was just a bit off-colour.’ Jill turned away and began to stack plates into the dishwasher so that he couldn’t see her face.

‘If you say so. But if something is troubling you, don’t let it fester. Tell me and we can talk it through. Promise?’

She turned back to face him. ‘Okay, promise. I’m meeting a friend in town this afternoon, by the way. I’ll be back by six.’

She tried to sound nonchalant, but inside she was nearly paralysed with anxiety. She left the room quickly. She had a shower, put on her new underwear, slid into a dress, added a little make-up and ran down the stairs.

‘Bye!’

The door banged behind her.

She took some deep breaths and made her way to her car. She didn’t see her daughter watching from her bedroom window as she drove away. Karen walked silently to her parents’ room and examined the discarded packaging in the litter bin. Jill drove across town to the northern outskirts. She parked in a quiet side street and walked to a gate in the shadows of tall shrubs. She looked up. The familiar face was smiling at her out of an upstairs window, a hand raised in greeting. How do you tell your husband that you’re in the middle of a madly passionate affair that you never want to end? One with another woman?

Chapter 26: On Tenterhooks

Monday morning, week 3

Rae arrived in the incident room early on Monday. She was nervous about the conflicting directives she had received three days earlier. She noticed that Sophie was in her office so she hesitantly knocked at the door.

‘Am I still okay to be here, ma’am? I mean, after what happened on Friday afternoon? I’ve allowed time to drive over to Winfrith if I need to.’

Sophie looked up from her desk. ‘Sensible of you. But you’re fine. The ACC, Jim Metcalfe, is now our overall commander, so you can relax. Things proceed as I outlined on Friday.’

‘Thanks, ma’am. I’ll leave you in peace.’ Rae gave a nervous smile and returned to her desk. She looked and felt as though a monstrous weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She made herself a coffee and took a gulp before settling down. How had the boss done it? Something had happened over the weekend. Their evening in the pub on Friday had been muted by the afternoon’s events, and no one felt like discussing them. Barry tried once, but Harry Turner had silenced him with a slight shake of his head. Turner and the boss had worked out some scheme that had obviously succeeded. Oh well, she’d find out before long. Rae had one or two contacts at police headquarters, and they’d let her know.

Marsh came in and made his way over to her.

‘Are you okay, Rae?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir. I was on tenterhooks until just now. But it seems the ACC’s taken control. That’s what the boss’s just told me. How did she do it?’

‘I haven’t a clue. It was obvious late on Friday that she was up to something, her and her Uncle Harry, as she called him. I just can’t guess how they did it. I only found out first thing this morning when she texted me. Maybe we’ll find out some day, but now we need to stay focused on the case. Even if the ACC is more amenable, he won’t be happy with what’s happened and he might well let us know it. The people at his senior level don’t like the bureaucratic process being upset, so let’s not waste time speculating. I must say I didn’t exactly get my best sleep ever last night. You?’

Rae shook her head. ‘I hardly slept at all. I feel almost lightheaded.’

‘Well, finish your coffee and get stuck in. I bet the ACC’ll come in at some point, so we need to make sure we’re all grafting when he does.’

Marsh was right. The tall figure of the Assistant Chief Constable appeared in the doorway shortly after ten o’clock. On the few occasions when Barry had met Jim Metcalfe he’d been impressed by the senior man’s relaxed and calm attitude, but today he was curt and watchful. He nodded to the people working in the incident room, glanced at the information board, then made his way into Sophie’s office. He closed the door behind him.

"Good morning, Jim,’ Sophie said, looking up from her desk.

He didn’t respond immediately. Finally he said, ‘The chief is not happy when this kind of thing happens. She feels manipulated and, like all chief constables, she hates that.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘Because, figuratively speaking, it has your fingerprints all over it. Not that I told her that, of course. But she showed me the anonymous dossier that landed on her desk on Saturday morning and I had a look through it. Her first concern was how the authority had ended up employing someone who had lied on his CV, a person who was capable of treating junior female officers in that way, even if it was before he came to Dorset. How did he end up in such a senior role? But she was distinctly unhappy about the threat to go to the press with it. She may be the county’s first woman chief constable, Sophie, but she’s like everyone else who finds they’ve been boxed into a corner. She’ll try to identify the person who put her there.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Jim.’ Sophie looked him in the eye. ‘Your phone call last night, when you told me Neil was being suspended, took me by surprise. I hope he’s coping okay. Would you like a coffee? Then you can meet the team and get an overview of how far we’ve got.’

‘That would be very acceptable. I’ve said what I felt I had to say, so now we can get down to business.’

* * *

Sophie had been right in the prediction she’d made on Friday afternoon. As the morning wore on useful evidence and information started to trickle into the incident room from the various individuals and organisations contacted the previous week.

The first item to appear was an emailed list from Bristol Police. It summarised the items that had been retained after the unexplained hit and run death of Doctor Li Hua Camberwell, and included a hair brush. Barry replied immediately asking for the brush to be sent to him by emergency courier, for DNA analysis.

The next documentation was closely linked to this: the DNA profiles of the children’s bodies, taken from residual bone marrow. The profiles reinforced several of the assumptions the team had already made. The children had been siblings and were part Chinese and part European. The results ruled out any Philippino background, which probably meant that a connection to Wethergill’s partner was unlikely. If forensic experts could extract some DNA from hair follicles on Li Hua’s hairbrush, they would be able to confirm or refute a possible family connection to the Camberwells.

The final item was a phone call that Sophie received from Southampton University late in the morning. Professor Wendy Millward had examined the rug fragments that had been sent to her laboratories. She reported that initial tests had failed to find any traces of iron cyanide complex. Further, more sensitive analytical work would be needed to confirm the result, but her most reliable technician was fairly sure that nothing would be found. Sophie was disappointed.

‘But something else did turn up, so it’s not all gloom. I don’t know what to make if it, though.’ Sophie waited.

‘It follows on from the tests we did last week, on the soil from the cellar. You remember we had a chat about it?’

Sophie frowned, trying to remember what they’d decided. ‘Yes. You wanted to do some more checks, if I remember right?’

‘Exactly. We think there are traces of hydrocarbons in the cellar soil, but at a very low level.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Well, the tests suggest paraffin residues. Obviously it was a long time ago, and all the volatile components have long since evaporated into the air. But there are traces of the heavier ones, probably adsorbed onto the soil particle surfaces. Maybe due to a spillage of some kind?’

‘Thanks, Wendy. I don’t know how relevant it will turn out to be, but it all helps us to build up a picture. I don’t suppose you can work out how long it’s been there? From the residues left, I mean. If it was paraffin then wouldn’t it lose components at a steady rate? Given that it was cool in the cellar and at a fairly constant temperature?’

‘There’s an interesting thought. Personally I don’t know, but I’ll get in touch with one of my colleagues in environmental science. I think someone has done some work on evaporation rates from sand, but that was probably with crude oil rather than refined paraffin. I’ll get back to you on it.’

Sophie walked over to Rae’s desk.

‘Have you got that list from the house clearance people, Rae? You know, the stuff they removed from Finch Cottage when it was sold?’

Rae scrabbled around on her desk and found it. Sophie moved a finger down the list and then stopped.

‘There. Look. An old paraffin heater removed from the cellar. Rae, can you phone them and see if it’s been sold yet?’

In the early afternoon Sophie received a text from Harry Turner, saying how much he’d enjoyed the weekend, and wondering how things had gone. Sophie told him of the sudden change in the command structure. She walked to the hospital to hear the results of Benny Goodall’s post-mortem examination of Wethergill’s corpse.

As she crossed the street Sophie caught sight of a familiar and very feminine figure turning a corner ahead of her into a side street. She filed the information away in her brain, already seemingly chock full of disparate observations and thoughts.

* * *

‘My problem is this, Benny. If I stick only to the Dorset connection, I come to an obvious conclusion. There have been three deaths, the two children some twenty years ago and John Wethergill on Thursday. There is clearly some kind of link, and it leads us to suspect that Wethergill probably caused the children’s deaths, and that he committed suicide as our net closed in on him. Two suspicious deaths and a suicide.

‘However, looking beyond Dorset there have been five deaths, so the situation changes dramatically. We now include the rather unusual deaths of the children’s probable parents in Bristol. This gives us either four suspicious deaths and a suicide, or five suspicious deaths. If the latter, then we have good reason to think that the perpetrator might still be out there somewhere. Wethergill’s death is key, you can see that. So, is there any sign that his death was anything other than suicide?’

‘No. None whatsoever. Of course, that doesn’t prove anything. There were no signs of a struggle and there were no other drugs in his bloodstream, other than alcohol. The amount of alcohol was moderate, so he wouldn’t have been drunk.’

‘So you can’t tell me either way?’

‘That’s right. He was a fit man who looked after himself physically. All of his organs were fully functioning, and he probably would have had a long and healthy life ahead of him.’

‘What type of alcohol had he been drinking?’

‘I’d make a guess at something like Amaretto. Not the whisky on the bedside table, which is a surprise.’

‘That’s a bit of a giveaway, isn’t it?’

Benny shrugged his shoulders. ‘From your point of view, yes. Medically irrelevant though.’

Sophie’s brain was whirring. ‘I wonder if there were traces left in the glass on his bedside table. I’ll ask Dave Nash.’

He nodded. ‘I could arrange for some analytical tests just to confirm it, if you think it’s worthwhile.’

‘Yes. It’s important. Amaretto in the stomach but an open bottle of whisky by the bed.’

He nodded. ‘Almonds. Amaretto would disguise the smell and taste of the cyanide.’

‘Exactly.’

She took her mobile phone from her bag and called her sergeant. ‘Barry? Could you and Rae pay another visit to Wethergill’s flat? Yes, right now. Can you see if there’s a bottle of Amaretto or a similar liqueur anywhere? Even if it’s empty? Look in the bins. If you find one, bring it in. Then see if there’s any evidence that he was either interested in or wrote poetry. Collect any books on poetry that you find. Have a really good search for notebooks, scraps of paper or anything that has a verse of any type on it. Those strange verses that the vicar gave us weren’t the work of an absolute beginner or someone with no knowledge of literature. I want to find out if we’re being led a merry dance by someone.’

* * *

‘So, nothing?’

Marsh shook his head. ‘I looked for bottles of booze, notebooks or bits of paper, but I didn’t find anything relevant. And I went through the place very thoroughly. Rae searched his books. Again, nothing.’

‘The only ones he had were on gardening or cooking, ma’am. There were a few travel books and local maps, plus some Dorset guide-books. He had some general interest magazines but nothing literary at all.’

‘Have forensics finished with his laptop?’

‘Yes, I checked with them,’ Barry replied. ‘Stuff related to his business, general odds and ends, some files with dating sites, but otherwise the same kind of material as his books. Recipes and travel. There was nothing anywhere that was remotely connected to poetry.’

Sophie took the poems from the case folder and read them again. ‘So it’s looking as though he didn’t write these. Maybe I should get them analysed by an expert. I’ve already said that I think they’re the work of an amateur who knows how to use words and has some familiarity with literature. Am I wrong?’

Marsh shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m not into literature, and I don’t think I could have written them.’

Rae disagreed. ‘My degree was in engineering, but I can relate to them. I can see what a good therapeutic release writing something like that would be. I also think people are capable of much more than they think. They don’t realise what they can do until they actually try their hand at something when they’re feeling under pressure. I’m not saying that he did write them, and I know we’ve found no evidence for it, but I wouldn’t discount the possibility. He might have got books from the library. Maybe he went to a couple of evening classes.’

Sophie thought for a while. ‘We need to speak to the people who knew him. They might be able to say whether he had any literary abilities. I know we contacted his friends and family over the weekend, but maybe we need to talk to them again. Rae, can you do that now? Any headway with the paraffin heater, by the way?’

Rae shook her head. ‘No luck, ma’am. It was in such a poor condition that they binned it. They said it was badly corroded and would probably have been lethal to use. Sorry.’

Sophie frowned. ‘But that cellar was bone dry. Any corrosion would have happened before it was put down there, surely? Did they say where it was when they found it?’

‘Just in the far corner. That’s all he remembered.’

‘Okay, but we need to think about this. Meanwhile, Barry and I need to spend a bit more time crosschecking the information we have on the Camberwell parents. We’ll have a meeting first thing in the morning. We need to think through this Amaretto problem.’