BURIED CRIMES: a gripping detective thriller full of twists and turns (22 page)

‘Mum, if you take that line you’ll be fulfilling your own prophecy. You’ve got to take chances occasionally. If you really like and respect Bill, and I think you do, it’s worth giving it a go. I hate to see you like this, so full of self-doubt. You’re never going to feel the same level of overpowering emotion that you felt for Dad. It’s impossible. You were a teenager, for God’s sake, when everything is so charged. And added to that, you obviously felt something rare and special. I always felt strongly attracted to Martin, but I don’t think I ever experienced it as powerfully as you’ve described with Dad. But over time even that level of passion fades away and is replaced with a much more comfortable kind of love. I’m only in my forties and, really, I’m not sure I’d want that level of overwhelming, aching desire running through my life now. It would just get in the way of everything and leave me a wreck.’ She paused, choosing her words carefully. ‘Mum, you’ve got decades of life still in front of you. You’re fit and healthy. As far as I can tell, Bill is by far the most pleasant of all the boyfriends of yours that I’ve met. I know he stays over occasionally, and you do the same at his place, but it’s not the same as living under the same roof most of the time, not for most people and probably not for him.’

Susan said nothing.

‘Why don’t you go for something fairly low-level to start with? Just a simple ceremony of commitment, like a blessing of some type? Or move in together on a trial basis? You won’t know until you try it.’

‘That’s what he’s suggested,’ Susan murmured. ‘He can’t see the problem.’

‘More than anything else, Mum, Dad would have wanted you to be happy. Surely you realise that? We’ve all told you so, including gran and grandad. You have everyone’s blessing to move on finally.’ She got up and walked around the table, crouching down to put her arm around her mother. She put a finger on Susan’s forehead. ‘Close your eyes and clear your mind.’ A pause. ‘I’m his daughter, his only child. I am what is left of him. He is in me, and he and I both need you to be happy in your life. Trust us, please. You must start to finally put him behind you.’

Susan started to cry.

‘Would it help if you came to Wareham and stayed over this weekend? Hannah will be paying a flying visit on Sunday.’

Her mother nodded, unable to speak. The waitress hovered in the background, unable to decide whether to give the two women a few more minutes. Sophie smiled and beckoned her over.

* * *

Back in the incident room later that afternoon, Sophie had a review meeting with Barry Marsh, Rae Gregson and Theresa Jackson. Rae had brought in a tub of fruit scones that she’d baked the previous evening, along with a jar of raspberry jam and a pot of Cornish clotted cream.

‘You wicked, wicked young woman,’ Sophie said, spreading thick cream onto her second scone. ‘This has to be a sackable offence. Why did I save you from the evil grasp of he who must no longer be obeyed if this is what you go and do?’ She bit deeply into the scone. ‘Oh, heaven! It’s a good job I had lunch with my mother. She watches what I eat like a hawk and kept me to a slice of quiche, some salad and a solitary bread roll. My stomach was gurgling all the way back from Bristol.’ She finished the scone and wiped her fingers.

‘Right, let’s get on. More and more I’m thinking that the key to all these deaths is the marriage of Li Hua and Richard Camberwell. Pauline Stopley says that the marriage was made in heaven, and the two doctors were deeply in love. That was enough to make me suspicious, and this morning I did a bit of digging. Sure enough, there were some signs of friction and a couple of suggestions that Li Hua did not have the angelic temperament we thought she had. Quite the opposite. Even at work she could be bad tempered and downright awkward at times. Someone even speculated that she’d trapped Richard into getting married by getting herself pregnant. This was one of her own work colleagues. They seem to have felt more sorry for Richard than her.’

‘So Pauline told us the opposite of what was probably the case?’ Marsh asked.

‘Par for the course, don’t you think?’ Sophie smiled wryly. ‘We’ve now got an ally in the Bristol Major Crime Squad and she’s going to be doing a bit more digging from the inside. It’s a DI Polly Nelson, so if she phones or messages, make a note of it and bring it to me. She admitted that the original investigation into the hit and run was a bit lax. I’ll put in an official request for a collaborative approach via the ACC, but it might take days. Polly will try to make a start before then, if her workload permits. Meanwhile we dig into Richard Camberwell’s history before he went to Hong Kong. Childhood, teenage years, university, everything. We know about his link to Pauline Stopley, but my gut feeling is that there’s more. We can get started now, and continue tomorrow. We double check everything that our esteemed ex-actress has told us about her husband. Some of it will undoubtedly be true, but much will be false. The trouble is, we don’t know which is which.

‘Theresa, I know you’re due to visit the Freemans when the children get home, but see what you can find out about John Wethergill from a local perspective. You’re a longstanding Dorchester resident so you might be able to tap into sources that the rest of us don’t know about. Find out what you can about his background, going back to his school days. Pick Barry’s brain for ideas if you need to. Is that okay?’

‘Of course, ma’am.’

‘Rae, you spend some more time on the financial records. Wethergill and Camberwell.’

Sophie stood, deep in thought. Finally she said, ‘there is something we need to follow up, isn’t there? Wethergill was a Dorchester man. We know he had a relationship with Pauline’s sister, Dorothy. Presumably they met while he was a gardener at Finch Cottage, when the two sisters owned the place. We also know that Pauline was in an on-off relationship with Richard Camberwell, dating back to their school days. Could those two men have ever met? Do we know where they went to school? Can you work on that, Barry? And remember, all of you, there’s a possibility that someone followed Wethergill home from the restaurant the evening he died. If you come across anything that might give a clue about who it was, let me know right away.’

Rae was tracking back through financial records and bank statements from two decades ago. It hadn’t been easy extracting such dated information from the various banks and building societies. John Wethergill’s records in particular were a puzzle. He’d come from an impoverished broken home. He’d worked as a jobbing handyman and gardener for many years, yet somehow had managed to save enough money to set up a hardware store business. Rae could see that he’d secured a business loan from one of the local banks, but surely they’d only have awarded such a sum if convinced that he would be putting in a substantial sum of his own? And how would he have come by the kind of deposit required, considering his background? She pored through the reams of paper looking for an explanation, and found a partial one. He had had a deposit account containing twenty thousand pounds, opened in the winter of 1996, and left untouched, gaining interest, for almost three years. Where had that sum come from? She continued to study the statements. Nothing else came to light until the money was withdrawn towards the end of the decade. She walked to the desk where Marsh was sorting through a different lot of papers.

‘Do we have a date for when Wethergill opened his shop, sir?’

Marsh took a sheet from one of the folders on his desk. ‘Here’s what Theresa has found out so far. According to her it opened just before Christmas, 1999. A good time to start, I’d imagine.’

‘Okay. It matches with the withdrawal of money from a savings account of his that I’ve discovered, so I can see what the money was used for. But where did he get it? He could never have earned that much. Do you think he was left money in a will at about that time?’

‘There’s no evidence for that. Everything we’ve found says that his family had next to no money.’

Rae pondered. ‘Where did he grow up?’ she finally asked. ‘Do we know? Was he born and bred in Dorchester?’

‘Yes, as far as we know.’

‘Any other family members still alive?’

Theresa had traced an aunt of Wethergill’s, a resident of Blandford Forum. Marsh phoned her. She used to run a pub in Blandford, she explained, but had retired some years earlier. He asked her what she remembered about John as a boy. The young John Wethergill’s life hadn’t been a happy one. Beaten by a drunken father, in and out of trouble at school and too ready to mix with the "wrong sort." Marsh wondered whether the aunt was being over-judgemental. After all, Wethergill hadn’t had a criminal record, not even as a youngster. Still, it was useful background information.

‘Where did he go to school?’ he asked. ‘Did he live in Dorchester as a youngster?’

John had attended local schools, but had been hopeless at academic work apparently. Maybe he’d been a late developer. Marsh knew all about boys who failed to take education seriously until it was almost too late. He’d been a prime example of that. He thanked the aunt for her help and added the information to the file.

Rae had also been studying decades-old transaction details from Richard Camberwell’s bank and building society records. They showed nothing of interest. There were no large sums unaccountably appearing or disappearing from any of the accounts. Where had Wethergill’s lump of money come from? It had changed his life, and it had appeared in his account at about the same time as the twins had died. Coincidence?

Chapter 33: Chinese Whispers

Friday evening, week 3

‘I saw that Dorothy woman again today, Mum, in Weymouth.’ Jade was spooning fruit trifle into her mouth while studying some revision cards spread out on the table in front of her. A school chemistry test.

‘In Weymouth? Are you sure? What were you doing there?’

Jade nodded. ‘It was her, though she looked very different. Asli and Safiyo both play in the first year netball team and they had an after-school match against a Weymouth school. I went along to support them. We drove back along the front in the minibus so that some of the girls could get fish and chips and I went into the chippie with them. I nearly bumped into her when I was coming out. She looked very different. She had a new hairstyle and was wearing make-up.’

‘Really? Could it have been someone else?’

Jade surveyed her mother gravely. ‘You doubt me too much, Mum. Actually, I suppose I might be wrong, but I don’t think so. Even though she was much better dressed she still had that nervous look. That was what I first spotted.’

‘Did she recognise you?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought so. She didn’t react, anyway. She’d just come out of the bookshop next door. She stepped back, then walked past and into the hotel on the same block.’

Sophie stared at her. ‘A hotel? Are you sure?’

‘Mum, I’m not totally stupid. I know a hotel when I see one, particularly when it has a big sign outside.’

‘That’s not what I meant, Jade, as you well know. She definitely went in?’

‘Yes, as if she was staying there. And the bookshop was a small, antiquarian type of place. The kind of bookshop Dad likes.’

Sophie thought for a moment. ‘I think I know where that hotel is. And you saw her come out of a bookshop? Thanks, Jade. Very observant of you.’ Her mind went back to the search of Pauline Stopley’s flat. A row of birthday cards had been displayed on a shelf. One of them was from her sister Dorothy, hand-made with a rhyme on the inside. That rhyme had been carefully crafted.

‘Aren’t you going to pat me on the head like you used to when I was little? I miss those motherly touches. They were an important part of my early childhood development.’

Sophie looked exasperated. ‘Jade, you’re four inches taller than me. I can’t reach. And you’re winding me up again, aren’t you? Just you wait till Jamie comes round again. I’ll get my own back.’

‘That’s the spirit, Mum. A bit of gentle teasing never hurt anyone, according to Dad. I’m immune to it after all the years. I’m surprised you fell for it just then. Didn’t he ever tease you? When you were both much, much younger, I mean?’

Sophie narrowed her eyes. ‘That’s two provocations in two minutes. I’m not going to fall into your trap. Has he put you up to this?’

Jade didn’t answer. She popped another spoonful of trifle into her mouth and shifted her attention back to her revision cards. Sophie phoned Barry Marsh, asking if they had an address for Dorothy Kitson.

‘I think we do but it’s back in the incident room. Trouble is, ma’am, Dorothy seems not to be around at the moment. Theresa reported that she has missed some of her cleaning jobs, not just the one at Finch Cottage.’

‘But that means we might have some legitimate concerns about her wellbeing, don’t you think? Busy at the moment, Barry?’

* * *

Within an hour, both detectives were standing outside the door of a small flat. It was one of ten in a shabby building in a back street west of Dorchester town centre. Dorothy’s flat was on the second floor. There was no lift and the stairs were uncarpeted. Barry rang the doorbell. There was no answer.

‘Check the flat next door, Barry. If anyone’s in, ask if they have a spare key.’

Marsh dutifully rang the bell for the adjoining apartment. He was soon talking to a hard-faced woman who was clearly upset at being called away from her favourite soap on the television. Yes, she did keep a key for her neighbour’s flat.

‘We’re concerned about her,’ Marsh explained. ‘Even her sister has been unable to contact her for several days so we need to check that she is alright. Would you like to accompany us, madam?’

The neighbour seemed about to reply in the negative, but then her programme’s theme music sounded signifying the end of the evening’s instalment. She said she would come with them but wait in the hall.

The single-bedroom flat was sparsely furnished but clean and tidy. They looked into the rooms but there was no sign of Dorothy, and nothing indicating where she was. The neighbour locked the door and Marsh and Sophie left the building.

‘Weren’t you tempted to have a closer look, ma’am?’

‘Of course I was. I’m only human, Barry. But it’s a legal minefield. We were there with the stated purpose of checking on her safety, with the neighbour as a witness. If we’d started nosing about, anything we found could be declared inadmissible in court. There are only two ways we can safely search someone’s property: with their permission or with a warrant. Anything else might put the case at risk, and it’s just not worth the gamble, not unless the stakes are high. Anyway, I had a good look round as I’m sure you did.’

‘Some simple artwork on the walls,’ he said. ‘A few old photos, maybe of her and her sister when they were small, though it’s difficult to be sure. Some books, mainly romance novels. A few magazines on a shelf in the lounge. A dark blue anorak hanging up in the hall.’

Sophie nodded. ‘Well spotted. Also a bottle of Amaretto, along with a few other drinks, inside the glass-fronted cupboard in the kitchen.’

‘Ah,’ Barry said.

‘Several small books of late twentieth century poetry on a shelf in the lounge recess. Including Ted Hughes. So.’

‘So?’

She nodded slowly. ‘It’s possible we may have discovered our poet, though I’m not sure how important that might prove to be. In the 1960s Ted Hughes wrote a volume of poetry called “Crow.” The poems were bleak in the extreme. That was the book I spotted back there.’

‘Ah,’ Barry said again. ‘Er . . . so?’

Sophie laughed. ‘Stop talking Chinese, Barry. Let’s get back to Wareham. A couple of beers are required at this stage. Rae wants to meet up with us for some reason. It sounds as if she might be onto something.’

* * *

Sophie drained half of her glass in one swallow. Rae watched, her mouth open.

‘Small glasses of white wine are fine in their time and place. But this isn’t the place and the time isn’t now. It’s Friday evening. The beer’s particularly good tonight.’

‘Where did you pick up the taste for beer? Was it when you were a student?’

‘No, oddly enough. When I was growing up in Bristol I had a rascal of a great uncle. My mum and I lived with him and Auntie Olive when I was a baby, and we stayed close to them even after we moved to our own place. They didn’t have children of their own. Uncle Reggie was great fun. He used to tickle me, and would reduce me to fits of giggles. He taught me all the bad habits: how to swear, smoke and drink. He said he didn’t want me growing up into a swotty little snob. Maybe he could see the writing on the wall, even when I was only eight or nine. Well, I never took to smoking. It made me sick. Even the swearing wasn’t a great success from his point of view. I knew all the words but he said I sounded too intellectual when I used them. Anyway, he took up home brewing when I was about fourteen and I used to go round and help him with it. I suppose that was the start of my beer drinking. I took over the brewing when he had a stroke and couldn’t do it anymore. I must have been about sixteen. I even put it on my university application form. The admissions tutor at Oxford asked me about it in my interview. He was particularly interested in the use of black treacle in my recipe for stout. He had a background in biochemistry, apparently. The law tutor was less impressed, but I had enough other stuff to win her over.’

Marsh spoke. ‘I remember you telling us you were estranged from your mother’s parents. Did you never meet them?’

‘No. As far as I know, my mother never sought them out either. What I did discover quite recently was that she’d sent them news of me from time to time. A copy of my O level results, and my A levels, along with a copy of the acceptance letter for Oxford. My graduation photo. That was it. By the time I got my masters, they were both dead. My mum never stopped hating them. When she heard they had died her only comment was, "good riddance." I can understand it, considering what they did to her.’ She sipped her beer. ‘Let’s get down to business. What have you found out, Rae?’

‘It’s Pauline Stopley, ma’am. Hong Kong sent a detailed report of her attempts to trace the children. Apparently she’s been visiting every year since they went missing and she really pushed the police to keep the search going. She’s never missed a single year. They would probably have given up years ago if she hadn’t been there so often, making a fuss. It doesn’t fit with the idea that she caused their disappearance, does it? One of their seniors wants you to phone him tomorrow, if possible, to fill you in on the details.’

‘Okay, if it’ll be useful. Maybe I’ve misjudged her,’ said Sophie.

Rae nodded. ‘If it was her who killed the twins I can understand she might make a couple of visits to play the grieving stepmother, but then she’d let them tail off, surely? She’s a bit of a complex person, isn’t she? Why wasn’t she more open with us during her interviews if she had nothing to hide?’

‘I couldn’t begin to speculate. She’s wrong-footed me several times. I just can’t read her. It hurts, that. It makes a dent in my enormous ego.’ Sophie laughed. ‘We’ll need to speak to her again soon. She and her sister might be the only two people who can enlighten us about a possible link between Dr Camberwell and John Wethergill. One of those two women must have known something about the sale of that Bristol house, surely? As I said to Barry, the elusive Dorothy might be in Weymouth at the moment. My eagle-eyed daughter, Jade, had a sighting. And several clues have come to light that could put her in the frame. So, Rae, you and I might have a day at the seaside tomorrow.’ She looked at her empty glass. ‘Your round, Barry.’

‘Ah,’ he said.

‘So,’ Sophie added, and smirked.