Three Little Maids
Read Three Little Maids Online
Authors: Patricia Scott
© Patricia Scott 2014
Patricia Scott has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Extract from
Dying to Meet You
by Patricia Scott
The girl’s naked body lay on the windy cliff top, undisturbed by the bluebottles that buzzed and danced around her glassy, bloodshot blue eyes or the noisy sea birds that screeched overhead as the fishing smacks brought in their nets on the beaches below. Nathan Barty, about to start his first day of work experience in the Fish Market, stopped whistling when he tripped over her bare legs and then spilt the tuna sandwiches, and a rosy red apple, from his lunch box into the long grass as he raced full pelt down the winding chalky path into the seaside town of Harcombe.
T
he desk Sergeant behind the Police Station counter listened attentively to Nathan’s first encounter with a dead body; ‘She - she’s lying up there on the cliff top - with no clothes on. She’s dead an’ she looks really bad, serge,’ the schoolboy babbled breathlessly and cried because, worse of all, he thought he recognized her...
When your tenant in the top flat is a police officer you come closer to crime than on the library bookshelves, librarian Viviane Gordon thought as she heard DI. Jon Kent racing down the stairs to the waiting police car outside. Was it a homicide? It was an early call out on a sunny July morning. She stirred the sugar into her black coffee and checked the time. Seven fifty am. She smiled. It was almost like the old times when Bill would have gone along with him.
In the police car
, Kent addressed the stocky sandy-haired man seated in the front seat next to the uniformed driver. ‘Give me a quick rundown, Turner. Has anyone identified the girl yet? Is she a local?’
‘It’s possible, guv. A schoolboy, Jimmy Barty, came across her when he took a short cut along the cliff top this morning. He took a quick look and scooted down town into the police station. He’s pretty shook up about it. The poor kid. He thinks she could be a girl from his school, Angela Carey.’
‘Okay. Fill me in as we go.’
‘The police surgeon’s up there now with the Scene of Crime officers and the Forensics are on their way.’
‘Where is it exactly? You say it’s on the cliffs past the East hill. I’ve not been up there yet.’
‘It’s near Lovers Leap, guv. A shade too near the cliff edge. Not considered an especially safe place to visit in the dark on your own. That doesn’t put ‘em off though.’
‘Lovers Leap, eh? Was she meeting a boyfriend?’
‘Who can say? She’s only a kid. Fifteen or thereabouts. Looks much older though.’
Ten minutes later, Kent left the car and accompanied by Turner walked over the cliff top to where the blue and white police ribbons, ruffled by the salty sea breezes like streamers, efficiently divided off the Scene of Crime from the public right of way. He looked down at the girl’s naked body, half hidden by the thick yellow flowering gorse and the sea pinks in the tufted grass near Lovers Leap; a place well used by courting couples. What wouldn’t he give for a cigarette just then as he met Turner’s troubled eyes. This was somebody’s daughter who lay there like a discarded Barbie doll.
‘God almighty.’
He blew his nose on a handkerchief, popped a strip of chewing gum into his mouth and bent over her, hands in his trouser pockets, to look closer at the bruise marks now visible on the slender white neck. He caught a hint of perfume as he did so, perhaps it was from the wild flowers; he couldn’t be certain.
She had a silky mass of curling silvery blonde hair like a shining aura round her head and her full bloodshot blue eyes stared vacantly up at the sun. A busy buzz of noisy bluebottles was paying close attention to the slack swollen tongue in her open mouth and a torn left ear lobe caked with blood. A shiny green beetle crawled slowly up over one bare dimpled knee
...
Her clothes lay in a pathetically neat pile beside her. Kent put on disposable gloves slowly, leant over again and picked up her small plump hands and examined the nails on both carefully. She was hardly more than a child, he
thought stretching his thin face into a long grimace. He uttered a four letter word quietly under his breath and said; ‘If she tried to defend herself at all the bastard’s left her nails as clean as a whistle.’
Police doctor
, Felix Poole, stood back from his work and peeled off disposable gloves carefully before saying; ‘Looks like he certainly left nothing to chance. It’s a nasty business, Inspector.’
Kent nodded. ‘So what time can you give us? Any idea?’
Poole scratched his chin thought for a moment and shrugged. ‘About eleven p.m. last night or thereabouts. Hard to say. It was a very warm night. Death caused by strangulation at a rough guess. It wouldn’t have taken much pressure on her neck to kill her. There are those bruises on her neck. Coming out nicely. And under her body. She was moved after death to where she is now. She’s fair skinned, bruised easily.’
‘Was she sexually assaulted?’ Biro
poised. Turner flipped a page over in his notebook and chewed on the peppermint sweet in his dry mouth vigorously.
‘Could have
been. You’ll have to wait for the post-mortem.’
‘How old would you say she
is? Fifteen - sixteen? Hard to tell these days.’
‘Fifteen, I’d say, sir. She’s a local schoolgirl. Her father’s a town councillor and the local Funeral director, Joseph Carey.’ The young police constable standing behind the tall detective volunteered this information with an uncertain grin on his freckled face.
‘Thanks, Townsend.’ Kent glanced at his watch. ‘Nine-ten. Have the parents called the station yet to say she’s missing?’
‘No, sir.’
Kent grimaced. ‘Turner.’
‘Guv?’
‘Take a woman constable with you to the Carey’s home. Someone needs to break it to the parents immediately. Police Constable Sherwood will do nicely. I can leave it with you?’
Stan Turner nodded. ‘Righto, guv.’
He groaned mentally, he wasn’t looking forward to it. His youngest daughter, Emma, went to the same school and was in the same class as the victim. He quelled the thought quickly that it could have been her but Emma knew better than to take nocturnal walks along the cliffs at night accompanied or otherwise.
He’d had occasion to use Carey’s funeral services when his father died two years ago. Sombre, dark-bearded Joseph Carey reminded Stan Turner of Abraham Lincoln. The Carey family belonged to a local Lutheran chapel and they took their religion very seriously. Carey was a strict parent apparently from what Emma had mentioned at home and Turner couldn’t imagine him allowing Angela to stay out late at night. Come to that, he couldn’t see Carey allowing her out at all in the evenings, at least not on her own.
As Police Constable Sherwood got out of the police car, the pretty brown-eyed policewoman looked up at the grey stone creeper clad four storey Victorian house and giggled. ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant Turner. It makes me think of the Adams family. Looks like he makes a good living though.’ She giggled again. ‘You said he’s an undertaker, didn’t you?’
‘He is. And he’s about to find out that his daughter is dead,’ Turner said, ringing the chiming
doorbell on the imposing oak front door, ornamented by a stained glass window panel. ‘So watch it, Sherwood. I want you to help me put Mrs Carey in the picture as delicately as possible. Ah, here she comes now, I think.’
A tall shadow appeared behind the stained glass and the door was opened. The blonde woman in the sleeveless
, sea blue linen dress looked at them uncertainly.
‘Good morning, Mrs Carey?’ He showed his identification. ‘Detective Sergeant Turner and Police Constable Sherwood. May we come in, please?’
‘Yes.’ Her face cleared suddenly and smiled pleasantly. ‘Oh, have you come to advise us on crime prevention? Mr. Carey mentioned that he’d asked for a crime officer to call. We have had some robberies in this road lately. Won’t you come in please?’
‘Thank you. I’m sorry, Mrs Carey, but we’re here on other business than security. You have a daughter Angela?’ Turner said following Constable Sherwood into the highly polished parquet laid front hall.
‘Angela? She’s not home.’
She took them into the large sunny, open plan living
-room. It was tastefully and expensively furnished in pale green and blue, and many local views in water colours were on display around the walls.
‘Angela’s staying over at her friend Stacey’s house. She hasn’t done anything wrong, has she?’ Her hand fidgeted with a large pearl stud earring. ‘Her father won’t like it if she has. She has been a bit wilful lately but that’s teenagers for you.’ She smiled at the police officers. ‘Have you any children, Sergeant Turner?’
‘I have, ma’am. Two boys and a girl. Mr Carey is he at home? We would like to speak to both of you.’
‘He’s at his place of business. Attending a funeral today.’ Her hand flew to her bare throat and she gasped. ‘Oh
- something has happened to Angela, hasn’t it, officer?’ Her full grey-blue eyes showed alarm now. ‘She’s had an accident! She’s in hospital...’
‘No, Mrs Carey. Would you like to sit down, please?’
The front door was opened suddenly with a key. Mr Carey joined them briskly. ‘Ah! Good morning, Sergeant Turner. Your Inspector Kent has just called and advised me to come home. What is this about? Are you all right, Paula?’
‘Something has happened to Angela. Sergeant Turner?’ Mrs Carey gripped her husband’s arm. The police officers had their full attention now.
He nodded. ‘Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid it has. When did you last see Angela, Mr Carey? Did you know where she was going last evening?’
‘We did. And we know where she is now. What is this leading to, officer? Is our daughter in trouble? Is she? Paula, you should never have allowed her to sleep over at that girl’s house.’
‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Carey, Mr Carey. We have good reason to believe that Angela is dead.’ A gasp came from Paula Carey and she clutched her husband’s arm. ‘A young girl’s body was found lying on the cliff top near Lovers Leap early this morning. And was recognised by a witness to be your daughter.’
‘No-o she can’t be!’ Paula Carey collapsed into the nearest easy chair and
, sobbing bitterly, buried her face in her hands. Joseph Carey joined her quickly, standing close by, his hand resting heavily on her shaking shoulder as he stared blankly for a moment or so out of the front bay window at the view overlooking the park.
‘There must be some terrible mistake, Sergeant Turner,’ he said in a monotone. ‘You have identified the wrong girl. Angela is staying at her friend’s house. She promised us never to go out on her own. We do not allow our daughter to go out with so many strangers about on her own. Not here at night. We have so many of these immigrants and wrongdoers out on the streets.’
