Animal Instinct (7 page)

Her sister was taking a break in the private accommodation and the licensee led D.I. Massey through to a small lounge at the back of the bar. D.C. Jones had accompanied the inspector on the basis that a female officer would be appropriate, given the circumstances of their visit.

This was a part of the job hated by most officers, but it was necessary and Massey always argued, whenever he sent a member of his team on such an assignment, that someone trained for the role was better for the distressed recipient of the tragic news. From his own experience, however, he was the first to admit that it was never easy, especially as people reacted in different ways. So it was with Diana Crawford. Whether it was shock, disbelief or just a refusal to accept the truth, he was unsure, but her calm acceptance of the dreadful tidings took him by surprise.

As Mrs. Crawford and her son had used public transport to make the journey to Derbyshire, they readily accepted a lift back to Cheshire with the two detectives. Leaving Kinder Scout and the High Peak District behind them, they followed the winding road from Whaley Bridge to Macclesfield, dropping eventually towards the Cheshire plain. The return trip gave the officers an opportunity to discuss Lara and thereby learn some interesting facts about her.

At the same time, D.C. Jones learned a lot about the complexities of her new boss. D.I. Massey had earned his promotion, not merely by his expertise as a first rate detective, but his progress could also be attributed to his flexible relationship towards colleagues and members of the general public who crossed his path. His concern for others stemmed from a basic altruistic nature, which, when combined with his analytical approach to every situation and his passion to succeed, encapsulated the perfect ingredients for a natural team leader.

The principal key to his success, however, was his innate ability to switch behavioural styles instinctively. Mingling compassion and empathy with polite but probing conversation, he managed to elicit vital information about Lara's background and lifestyle from his passenger in an efficient yet gentle manner. The Crawfords had adopted Lara as a baby and brought her up as their own, as they had given up hope of having a child because of infertility problems. As is often the case, several years later Diana became pregnant, giving birth to Michael, both children being brought up as natural brother and sister. Lara was unaware of her true origins until her sixteenth birthday.

Early family life was spent in Longridge near Preston. Mr. Crawford had been an aircraft technician at an R.A.F. base at Samlesbury, but his death from cancer changed their lives completely. His wife decided to leave their rented accommodation to live closer to her own mother in Cheshire. Using the insurance money from her husband's death, she purchased the cottage in Moulton and eked out a living from the modest pension that she received from her late husband's pension fund. Unfortunately, the grandmother died shortly after they moved south and the family, alone in a strange area, became somewhat introverted.

Lara eventually escaped into the world outside by starting work against her mother's wishes at the fashion boutique in Winsford, where she became involved with a young assistant manager, Andy Davenport. Diana also confirmed that she was unaware of her daughter's pregnancy and her intended abortion. During their informal chat, Massey became aware of Mrs. Crawford's intense dislike and mistrust of Lara's young man, but despite guiding the discussion in that direction, he was unable to fathom why.

By the end of the journey, Massey, though having a clearer picture of Lara as a person and her recent lifestyle, was no nearer to a motive for her murder. In his mind, the enquiry so far was yielding very little. Neither the interview with Fiona nor the dialogue with Lara's mother cast any light on the possible source of the caustic smell or the metal fragments. Their original thoughts that they could perhaps be attributed to the workplace had most certainly been scotched. Most importantly they were no nearer to the identity of a possible suspect. Was her death merely a random attack on a young defenceless girl?

Before dropping Diana Crawford at her cottage in Moulton, their final duty was to visit the mortuary, where she could formally identify her daughter. Once again, Massey was surprised by the lack of emotion displayed by Lara's mother. Her calm acceptance played on his mind and would continue to occupy his thoughts until an explanation could resolve his dilemma.

*****

A single place setting for breakfast had been laid up on a small table in a side room off the main bar area of the Barleycorn. Jimmy Moran entered from the door marked PRIVATE. There was an eerie stillness in contrast to the noise and disturbance of the previous day's final bank holiday festivities.

A cleaner appeared, resolutely ploughing her furrow through the debris of a busy night's trading. Her downbeat expression conveyed her feelings towards the unenviable task that lay ahead of her. The sight of the smartly dressed, handsome stranger stopped her in her tracks.

“You'd better sit yerself down in there,” she said coughing through the haze of smoke from her well-chewed roll-up. She indicated the small dining area. “I'll give ‘im a shout.”

Moran found the ‘table for one’ and sat alongside the window, giving him a view of the main road and the main area of the pub through the open doorway. It was no deliberate action to choose that position at the table but merely an instinctive impulse through years of self-preservation as a belligerent Republican. After a couple of minutes, Sean, the licensee, appeared in the doorway.

“Sleep well? Sorry about the noise. I forgot about the live music when I checked you in.”

“Not to worry. It was entertaining and I had some reading to be catching up on.”

“Cooked breakfast? Tea or coffee?”

“I'm famished. Give me the works with a pot of strong tea.”

Sean tossed him a morning paper. “Something more to read while you're waiting.” He disappeared to cook his guest's breakfast.

Moran picked up the copy of the Sun newspaper, which carried the headline ‘
TV STAR'S 3 IN A BED ROMP’.
However, his eyes were drawn towards a more insignificant headline ‘
MYSTERY BLONDE DUMPED’.
He read the article and flicked through the other pages until Sean returned with his cooked breakfast.

“See you've got a local murder hunt in full swing,” he remarked. “That should keep the coppers tied up for some time. It'll make it easier for our little operation to go un-noticed.”

Sean nodded in the realisation that Jimmy Moran had already made up his mind. He accepted the inevitable. “When do you want the rooms?” he asked after placing the ‘full English’ in front of him.

“Jesus, that looks good,” said Moran, admiring the mountain of fried food. He cut open a sausage, stabbed a piece of bacon, dipped both in the yolk of an egg and shovelled the greasy forkful into his mouth. “Start next week,” he muttered through the food. “Keep all eight rooms free until further notice. You will be well in pocket, Sean. If anyone gets suspicious or asks about them, just say it's a block booking by some cultural studies group.”

“So, are you going to tell me who these guys are?”

“Like I said…students. They're young lads from different areas of the country, some from the north, some from the midlands and some from the south. You don't worry yourself now. Enjoy and take the money. Any real problems, contact me.”

He passed a small hand-written card to Sean. “You can reach me on that number any time, day or night. It'll be a breeze. Keep one room free. I'll be dropping in from time to time and staying over. Oh, make sure it's en-suite. I don't like sharing a bog.”

Some breeze, thought Sean. As he left the upbeat Irishman to devour the remainder of his breakfast, he reflected on the proverb ‘It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good’.

*****

D.C.I. Wainwright leaned back in his chair. “Now that the family have been informed, I'm issuing a statement to the media at ten thirty this morning. I hope that the publicity will jog someone's memory. If we can pinpoint the exact time she left home and caught the bus into town, I wouldn't be averse to doing a reconstruction.”

“That's if she caught the bus, as her friend stated,” said Massey.

“Maybe the bus driver could confirm that. Let's face it; she was a bit of a ‘head-turner’. Somebody must have noticed her.”

“I'll check with the bus company and find out who was rostered on that route on Thursday morning. If we arrange a recon, how far do we run with it?”

“How do you mean?”

“According to her friend, Fiona, she was heading eventually for Northwich. If she took the local service from Moulton, she would have to get off at the Square and walk down High Street to the bus station or wait for a connection at the bus stop over the bridge. If she was intercepted en route, was it at that point or did she make the connection to be snatched on arrival at Northwich or later still between the terminus there and the clinic?”

“If the incident occurred at Northwich, I can't see any logic in dumping her back here. I suggest we run a recon from her house to the bus station, when we have specific times confirmed.”

“I'll get the team out again. Now the bank holiday's over we can pick up what was missed over the weekend. According to forensics, the cottage was clean, so it'll be house to house along the route you suggested. Bear in mind there is also the possibility that she got a lift with someone.”

“We can squash that with any witnesses, especially the bus driver. What are you doing about the boyfriend?”

“Apparently he's still holidaying with his friends in Spain. D. S. Roker is checking that out. I still feel it was opportunist. No prime suspect, no motive apart from the pregnancy. But according to her friend, Fiona Wilson, no-one else was privy to her condition, not even the boyfriend.”

“What about other relationships?”

“Again, Wilson was adamant that she was not one to sleep around. Therefore, it would be highly improbable that she had been involved with anyone else.”

“Well, if it wasn't premeditated it's likely that mistakes were made and there's always the chance of some evidence turning up, particularly if we can establish the location of the actual crime scene.”

Massey left Wilkinson's office deep in thought. He decided to check with Nuttall again. He was pleased to learn that there was some additional news.

“I've examined the clothing which you brought in. As you guessed, the various items carried that peculiar smell, together with those same traces of a caustic substance. However, the dress was stained particularly on the rear, suggesting that she was possibly in a sitting position when she came into contact with whatever the substance was.”

“Not on her back, then?” asked Massey, thinking about the possible rape scenario.

“Difficult to say. There were some traces on the shoulders.”

“So, if she was raped, it's likely that she wasn't lying down in this stuff at that point?”

“Taking account of the bruise on her head, I would imagine that she either fell down or was knocked down, landed in this caustic solution or whatever and was probably rendered unconscious. I'm basing my theory on the supposition that she was exposed to it at that point. Whether she was raped before or afterwards is a matter for conjecture at this stage.”

“But you still maintain that the blow to the head wasn't the cause of death?”

“I believe she was suffocated. There's no evidence to suggest otherwise.”

Massey paced the room, trying to imagine a likely scenario. “She's obviously arrived somewhere shortly after leaving home where she's come into contact with her killer. As you say, it's probable that is where she picked up these strange substances. The annoying fact is that I know that smell, but I cannot recollect from where. Could it have been in someone's workshop?”

Nuttall considered the inspector's remark. “You may not be far out. It could be a workshop or industrial premises. Is there anything of that ilk en route?”

“Not as far as we know,” said Massey. “We have a young girl leaving home early one morning on her way to have an abortion. She catches a bus and ends up in a factory? It doesn't make sense.”

“Maybe you're barking up the wrong tree. Perhaps she picked up the chemical traces from her assailant.”

“We'll just have to check out all the premises along that route. Any news on the D.N.A.?”

“Should have the results back tomorrow, Thursday at the latest. On the other hand, it could be next week. It takes time and there could be a back log because of Easter.”

Massey was frustrated. Still no suspect, still no motive and the only forensic evidence indicated a most unlikely scenario. He decided to visit Chic-Chat. Maybe the boutique manager could throw some light on the situation.

He despatched Turner and Jones to check which non-domestic premises were situated on Lara's probable route into town. He had asked Roker to interview the Davenports about their son's holiday arrangements and the rest of the team, together with a few spare uniformed officers, were assigned to conducting house-to-house enquiries.

Before he left the office, the inspector asked one of the station clerks to contact the bus company to acquire a list of drivers who were on duty during the early hours of Thursday morning. With everyone committed to some aspect of the case, he set off to question Lara's boss at the boutique in a somewhat more buoyant mood than previously.

*****

Donald Kimberley, the manager of Chic-Chat was as obnoxious as the expression on his face. An apt description would include the words ‘slimy, smug and snobbish’ or, as Massey described him later, ‘full-of-his-own-shit’.

The boutique was situated in the newly opened town centre development, which had been partly financed by reciprocal treasury funding from the overspill intakes. Wedged between an Iceland frozen food shop and Woolworths it also faced a new supermarket. Its ideal positioning boosted its potential and trade was usually quite brisk.

The business belonged to a small regional chain and, though he was only the manager, Donald Kimberley boasted openly that he was the proprietor. Despite pushing almost fifty years of age, he only admitted to being in his early forties. He clad himself in outfits that ridiculed his image by their youthful style and attempted to speak the new wave of jargon currently in vogue by a generation, which was almost young enough to be a product of his own children.