BURIED CRIMES: a gripping detective thriller full of twists and turns (15 page)

Chapter 21: Meticulously Pressed Trousers

Wednesday afternoon, week 2

Jill Freeman glanced at her watch for the seventh time in as many minutes. She felt nervous and tense, almost terrified, but remained in the hotel bar, sipping her gin and tonic. Where had her lover got to? The text message had been terse, merely stating a location (this hotel) and a time (fifteen minutes ago). Should she be doing this? Why was she doing this? What were her motives? She considered these questions for what seemed like the twentieth time that day. She came to the same conclusion. Yes, she should. She so desperately needed to. Anyway, who gives a tinker’s cuss about motives when the emotions are as powerful as these? Her longing was so intense that it overran all reason. Jill was nothing but a quivering mass of desire. All other pressures were wiped away. In fact the extra pressures were part of the problem. After the discovery of those tiny, tragic bodies buried under the butterfly bush in her garden, it all became too much for her to cope with. She desperately needed to escape, if only for an hour or two.

Jill took another sip and glanced up in time to see the object of her lust coming through the door from reception, dressed in black, walking calmly and in control towards the bar, ordering two large gin and tonics, exchanging a quiet, relaxed few words with the barman, and finally turning towards her. Oh, that confident, reassuring smile. Jill felt her heart lurch.

‘I’ve already picked up the key to the room,’ she said, nervous.

‘In that case I won’t bother sitting down,’ came the calm, assured reply as those long, sensitive fingers stroked out an errant fold in the fabric of the meticulously pressed black trousers. ‘Shall we just go up? I want to get your clothes off with as little delay as possible so that I can worship that beautiful body of yours. It’s been a tense and busy couple of days, and then to cap it all my train ran late.’

Jill rose from her chair, holding out her hand, and took the proffered arm. ‘For me too. But I’m fine now you’re here.’

* * *

It was nearly five in the afternoon when Jill Freeman, still slightly flushed, turned the key in her front door and let herself in.

‘Anyone in?’ she called. There was no answer. She’d chosen today for that very reason: both children would be in late. Karen was playing in an away match for her school hockey team and Paul would be at the after-school chess club. Neither would be back before five thirty. Jill had worked late on both of the preceding two days in order to gain the free afternoon. She went to the kitchen to make a pot of tea, then up to her bedroom where she changed into jeans and a loose blouse. She’d already showered at the hotel to wash off the smell of sex, so she dumped her bra and panties into the wash basket and returned to the kitchen to pour her tea. When Paul arrived home, excited from his first victory in the school chess challenge, she was sitting on the couch, feet tucked under her, sipping Earl Grey and apparently calm. Inside, her brain was still performing cartwheels.

‘Have a biscuit and a glass of milk, Paul,’ she called. ‘Dinner won’t be ready before six thirty, so you can probably get most of your homework done before we eat. Okay, sweetheart?’

She finished her tea, made her way through to the kitchen and started on a batch of ironing. Inside, she was still singing the Hallelujah Chorus, the music that had entered her head earlier that afternoon as she’d climaxed for the second time in an hour.

* * *

Dorothy Kitson telephoned Tony Younger, the church minister, telling him that she would be away for several weeks because a close family member was seriously ill. Would he be able to arrange a substitute cleaner? She then called the Arts Centre with the same message. She drew deeply on her cigarette, her fingers trembling. Maybe she’d keep on a couple of her household cleaning jobs. Those people wouldn’t know much, after all. But that detective woman worried her, she and her nuisance daughter, always popping up in odd places and looking at her, trying to talk to her. That just wasn’t fair. What had she ever done to deserve that kind of nosey intrusion? Nothing. She’d done nothing. It frightened her, especially after she’d seen the policewoman at the church on Friday morning. She hadn’t expected that. She’d heard them talking, as if they already knew each other. Why? Was there something that she, Dorothy, didn’t know? Had something happened involving the vicar? Had he called the police in? Why would he do that? What had the police found out? And most of all, what was her sister up to?

Her hand was still shaking. She poured herself a large glass of scotch and added some lemonade. She blew her nose noisily and lit another cigarette.

* * *

It was now seven forty-five. John Wethergill sat alone at his table in Dorchester’s best Italian restaurant, disappointed and rather self-conscious. It would be obvious to the other diners, particularly the young couple at the next table that he was waiting for someone. He was sitting at a table for two and had not yet ordered any food. He was wearing a neat, well-pressed shirt and contrasting tie, and checked his watch frequently. She was fifteen minutes late, and this was a first date —outside his flat, that is. Did that night of passion count as a date? He sighed and idly pushed his small glass of beer around on the table, then started to play with his napkin. How much longer should he wait, and why hadn’t she sent him a message? He looked up, and there she was, walking towards him with that seductive smile on her face. She slid out of her coat and sat down. She was wearing a shift dress in a delicate pink. She looked stunning. His throat became dry.

‘Sorry I’m late. I’ve had one heck of a busy day. I’ve had a couple of days in London on Arts Council business, and this morning’s session went over time. I rushed to get to my Waterloo train, and then it ran late. At least I managed to get a couple of hours’ exercise this afternoon and a short nap. I was so tired after all the endless meetings. But here I am. You look shocked. Your mouth’s open.’

John closed his mouth, then opened it again. ‘Yes. I mean, no. Don’t worry. It’s not a problem. Was it an interesting couple of days though?’

Pauline gave him one of her disarming smiles. ‘Yes, in a way. I had a charming evening out yesterday with a young woman from Dorset who is at Drama College in London. She was picking my brains about acting and then she told me all about her FGM campaign. We got a bit tipsy together.’ She caught the attention of a passing waitress. ‘Shall we order?’

They ordered and Pauline almost gulped her gin and tonic.

‘What’s FGM?’ John asked.

‘It stands for female genital mutilation. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it. It’s been in the news quite a lot in recent years. Some cultures, mainly from Africa, practise female circumcision. It’s a form of control, leaving the girl unable to enjoy sex. Her clitoris is cut out before she reaches puberty. There’s nothing to gain from the practice and everything to lose, according to Hannah — she’s the young woman I met. She called it totally barbaric. Many women are left mutilated and in pain for the rest of their lives. I met Hannah for the first time here in Dorchester, on Sunday. She was chairing a talk at the Arts Centre and we chatted over a cup of tea afterwards. That’s when she found out who I was. I had a free evening yesterday so I contacted her to see if she was able to meet me.’

John looked a little puzzled. ‘You said you were meeting someone on Sunday afternoon, so I thought you had another date. You meant the talk? You were just teasing me, weren’t you?’

Pauline smiled mischievously. ‘I went with my sister. But I did have lunch first, and that’s all I’m prepared to say.’ She paused for a moment. ‘I did enjoy our time together at the weekend, John. I sometimes worry that I’m too pushy when it comes to the physical side of things, but it isn’t forced. It seems natural for me to take the lead. I guess you’ll just have to accept it.’

He smiled. ‘It’s not a problem. It was all new to me and I loved it.’ He raised his beer and they touched glasses. ‘Here’s to us,’ he said. ‘Do you want to come back to mine again tonight?’

She shook her head. ‘Sorry, John. I really can’t make it tonight. But how about you coming to my place on Friday evening? I do a great pasta if you don’t mind eating Italian again.’

‘Of course. I’ll look forward to it. I’ll bring the wine.’

She leaned towards him and whispered, ‘I’ve thought of one or two new things to try out. Wear your silk pants again. Okay?’

The young couple at the next table stared at them, wide-eyed. John was embarrassed, but Pauline smiled sweetly at them and winked.

Chapter 22: Dreadful Death

Thursday morning, week 2

‘What’s going on?’ Sophie arrived at the incident room after a meeting with Jim Metcalfe and Neil Dunnett. The latter had been sullen and uncommunicative. Thank heavens for her good relationship with the ACC.

‘It might turn out to involve us, ma’am.’ Marsh held out some sheets of paper. ‘An apparent suicide this morning, here in Dorchester. John Wethergill, owner of a local hardware shop. The cleaner found him dead in bed when she went in first thing this morning. It has all the signs of cyanide poisoning. The local uniforms were there pretty quick and the call to us came in just now.’

‘Cyanide? Where in God’s name would he get that? Did you say hardware shop? Even so, it’s almost impossible to get hold of the stuff.’

‘He could have had it for years, ma’am.’

‘But why contact us?’

‘Apparently they found something showing that he’d been the gardener at Finch Cottage many years ago.’

Sophie closed her eyes. How was this going to look to Dunnett? Checking for gardeners and odd job men was to be their next task. And now this. She gave Marsh a thin smile. ‘Dunnett is going to have a field day with this. Okay, let’s move. Get Rae, will you?’

* * *

Wethergill’s flat was in a building that had once been a warehouse. A uniformed officer waited for the detectives in the flat’s hallway. Another was sitting inside with the cleaner who had made the grim discovery. Sophie greeted the two constables and spoke quietly to the one at the door.

‘What did you find that made you call us?’ she asked.

He pointed to a framed photo on a shelf in the narrow hall. It looked fairly old, slightly faded and out of focus. It showed a man in his late twenties or early thirties, wearing gardening clothes and leaning on a garden spade. Sophie recognised the garden immediately. She could see Finch Cottage in the background. She turned the photo over and read the inscription on the back: "To John Wethergill, Finch Cottage gardener, 1986 - 1996. Good luck with the new shop."

Sophie nodded. She looked around her, waiting for Benny Goodall, who had pulled up outside just as the detectives were entering the building. The ceilings were high, with exposed beams in the kitchen and living room, but the bedrooms looked more modern. Not that the detectives had much desire to admire the decor in the main bedroom. The effects of cyanide poisoning were clearly evident.

‘Not much doubt, is there?’ Sophie said to the pathologist, who had finally caught up with them. The redness of the dead man’s face said it all, along with the trails of vomit spread on and around the bed, evidence of severe seizures. ‘He took it bad.’

Wethergill’s body, still fully clothed, lay spread-eagled across the bed.

Goodall wrinkled his nose. ‘Can you smell it? Almonds.’

‘Yes. Is there any way it could have been accidental, Benny? Is that at all possible?’

‘There’s always a chance, I suppose. But why would anyone keep the stuff? It’s so tightly controlled. If he did have some in the house, I suppose it could be taken accidentally, assuming it was potassium cyanide. It looks just like sugar. But realistically, how likely is that? Are there any hints of a motive for suicide?’

She nodded. ‘Oh yes, most definitely. Once you get him out of here we’ll start looking for more clues. For your ears only, Benny, he could have been the gardener at Finch Cottage.’

‘Was the net closing in, then?’

‘Not really, although he wasn’t to know that. Anyway, it would have only been a matter of time. Rae has made a list of all the occupants and owners, so regular visitors and hired help would have been next. He would have guessed that. Time of death, Benny?’

‘I’d guess sometime in the early hours. He’s been dead about six or seven hours, so maybe between two and four this morning.’

Sophie nodded and looked at the empty glass tumbler on the bedside table. A small jar of white crystals sat beside the glass with its lid off, a teaspoon beside it. The aged label simply stated "Potassium Cyanide." A half-full bottle of whisky stood behind it, also open.

‘We need to be careful with that stuff lying around,’ she said. ‘Whatever you do, Barry, don’t put your fingers near your lips and mouth just in case you’ve picked up some grains of it without realising. Once we’ve finished our brief look we close the door until the forensic squad arrive. Dave should be here within twenty minutes or so.’ She looked at Goodall. ‘Do the full works, Benny. Everything you can think of. I’d like to get as complete a picture as possible of everything he did last night, and your findings will help so much.’

Marsh had been looking around the room. He picked up two framed photos lying face down on the nearby shelf. ‘Ma’am, you ought to see these.’

He handed the first one to her. It was a picture of a young woman who looked Asian. The second showed two young children, a boy and a girl.

Sophie waited while Benny finished his cursory examination and the forensic photographer had completed her work. She left the bedroom, took off her forensic suit and went into the lounge. Rae was sitting with a pale, middle-aged woman with shocking pink hair.

‘This is Sylvia McCabe, ma’am. She discovered the body soon after she got here this morning to do her weekly clean.’

‘Hello, Sylvia. Have you been working here long?’

The woman nodded. ‘About five years.’

‘I’m the senior investigating officer on the case, and I’ll need to ask you a few questions. Are you well enough to answer them now, or would you prefer it if we spoke later on today?’

There was a slight pause. ‘Um. Now would be okay.’

‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Sophie Allen. Here’s my warrant card. Let’s start with some routine questions about your work for Mr Wethergill.’

The cleaning lady called at the same time each Thursday morning to clean the apartment and do some of the laundry. John Wethergill had always washed and ironed his clothes, but had arranged with her to do the bed linen.

‘I don’t wash it here,’ she told them. ‘I use the laundry down the road. It’s quicker for drying the sheets and stuff.’

‘Have you noticed anything unusual in recent weeks, Sylvia? In Mr Wethergill’s behaviour? In the flat?’

‘Not really, though I don’t see him very much. He leaves me my money in an envelope on that shelf.’ She pointed towards a bookcase by the wall. There was no envelope.

‘Where is it today?’ Sophie asked.

Sylvia patted her pocket. ‘It’s the first thing I do, find me money. There’s no point in doing me cleaning and then finding it’s not there, is there? That’s the agreement. Me money has to be ready for me.’

‘We’ll need that envelope, Sylvia. It will have to be fingerprinted. That means we’ll need your prints as well. No, don’t you take it out. Rae can do it with a pair of tweezers.’

Sylvia watched. She looked anxious as the envelope containing her morning’s wages was carefully extracted from the pocket on the front of her housecoat. Rae then opened the top flap and peered inside.

‘Fifty pounds,’ she said, depositing the small package into a plastic bag.

‘S’right. When will I get it? I needs that money.’

‘You’ll get a receipt, Sylvia. If you’re really short I can lend you some.’

The cleaner was quiet for a while. ‘No, I s’pose I can wait.’

‘Did you see anything else different today?’

‘Me name isn’t on the envelope. It always was before, but it’s blank today. Maybe he couldn’t find a pen, I dunno. And it’s in smaller notes than usual. It’s always two twenties and a ten. This morning it’s four tens and two fivers.’

‘There’s a framed photo in the bedroom of a woman. She looks Asian. Maybe Indian? Do you know anything about it?’

‘That’ll be his girlfriend as was. Maralit or something like that, I think. She’s not been around for a few weeks. He said she’d gone back to the Philippines or somewhere like that. That photo’s always been in here before, not the bedroom.’

‘And there’s another, two young children.’

Sylvia shook her head. ‘Probably Maralit’s kids. I think they stayed back in the Philippines with their dad. He don’t usually keep it out, only when Maralit’s around and she’s been away for weeks.’

‘Can you walk round the flat with me, Sylvia? Just to see if anything else is out of its usual place. It won’t take long, and we won’t go in the bedroom. Then you can go. Okay?’

* * *

‘So. Assuming the bodies were of the Camberwell children, have we been barking up the wrong tree?’ Sophie asked. ‘What if they were the two in this photo, somehow linked to Wethergill, who just happened to be the gardener at Finch Cottage at about the time they were buried? What if the mother is the woman in the other photo, Maralit or whoever, who’s conveniently returned to the Philippines sometime in the past month or two? What I’m asking is, are we back to square one?’

Neither Barry nor Rae answered. They felt the same; despondent and angry with themselves. Sophie answered her own question. ‘Obviously we switch our attention to Wethergill at the moment. We need to give his place the full works, and find out all we can about him.’ She paused. ‘But we don’t bin the stuff we’ve already done on the Camberwells. It remains a possible avenue until I decide otherwise. Agreed?’

Her two juniors nodded.

‘Fine. Let’s get to work. Maybe a visit to the pub is in order tonight when we finish. Although I desperately want a shower and change of clothes to get rid of that foul smell. I think it’s just my imagination. Reassure me please, Rae. You didn’t come into the bedroom.’

Rae came closer and sniffed cautiously.

‘It is your imagination, ma’am. Not a trace. You were both wearing romper suits, remember?’

‘Sometimes those things do have their uses,’ came the answer.