Unnatural Wastage (2 page)

‘That sounds intriguing,' said Patsy. ‘Have you found out anything more about them?'

‘Well, yes, I have actually.' Kate gave a slightly embarrassed cough. She drained her glass and stood up. ‘Help yourself to a refill if you want one.' She indicated the jug of chilled juice that stood on the table. ‘I have to go and check on the food. Come in with me if you like while I tell you. It's just possible we can be overheard out there and I don't want anyone to think I spread gossip.'

‘Thanks, I'll bring this.' Patsy picked up the jug and they went back into the flat. In the small but well-equipped kitchen Kate opened the oven and inspected the contents of a covered roasting dish before sliding an apple pie on to the bottom shelf and closing the door. ‘We'll be eating in about fifteen minutes. The vegetables are all ready to be cooked.' She pressed buttons on the microwave and the turntable began to move.

‘You were going to tell me about these people who were having a spat over the accounts,' Patsy reminded her.

‘Ah yes, so I was. Their names are Fenella Tremaine and Marcus Ellerman. They're about the same age – mid to late forties at a guess although it's hard to tell nowadays – but from the way they speak it's obvious they come from rather different backgrounds. He's very well spoken and she's . . . well—' Kate spread her hands and made a vague gesture with the oven cloth. ‘I don't want to sound snobbish and I'm sure she's very clever – she certainly seemed to know what she was talking about and so did he. I'm told they work for the same company although whether that's got anything to do with the way they disagree with one another I've no idea.'

‘Who told you this?'

‘A gentleman who lives in the other block. People were handing out glasses of wine after the meeting and we got chatting. As you know I don't drink alcohol,' she added hastily, seeing Patsy's eyebrows lift, ‘but there were soft drinks as well. His name's John Yardley and he's very charming,' Kate went on, with a slightly self-conscious smile. ‘He's a widower; he retired a few years ago and after his wife died he moved here. He's very handsome, too; he looks a bit like that film director with the Italian sounding name.'

‘You mean Martin Scorsese?'

Kate nodded. ‘Yes, I think that's who I'm thinking of.'

‘Wow, he sounds dishy!' said Patsy. ‘Just the right age for you, by the sound of it! Perhaps you've made a conquest?'

‘Oh, I assure you, it was nothing like that!' said Kate earnestly. The microwave gave a beep and she opened the door. ‘You go and sit down at the table, dear, while I dish up.' Knowing from experience that it would be pointless to offer help, Patsy obeyed.

It was a warm day in late July, and when they had finished their lunch the two women returned to the balcony. Kate brought a cafetière, encased in a padded cosy bearing a picture of a beaming, mustachioed gentleman of South American appearance, and filled two cups with coffee. ‘He is rather fun, isn't he?' she said, seeing Patsy's smile. ‘I brought him back from my trip to Brazil last year.'

‘He looks very jolly,' Patsy agreed. ‘This certainly seems a very peaceful spot,' she remarked between sips of coffee. ‘Apart from the odd passing car, all you can hear is birdsong and the wind rustling the trees.'

‘Yes, it's usually pretty quiet,' Kate agreed. ‘It gets a bit noisier at weekends and during the school holidays, of course, but nothing to complain about. Most of the people here are very considerate.'

At that moment they heard the wail of a siren. ‘Perhaps we spoke too soon,' Patsy remarked.

The sound grew louder by the second. ‘They're coming this way,' said Kate uneasily. ‘Perhaps it's an ambulance – maybe someone's had an accident or been taken ill.'

‘I think you're right.' Patsy was on her feet and leaning over the balcony. ‘It is an ambulance and it's stopped outside your rubbish shed. Perhaps a resident got drunk and fell into one of the skips!'

‘You shouldn't make jokes like that . . . it might be something serious,' said Kate as she got up to look. ‘In fact, I think it is. Look, one of the paramedics is using his phone.' By this time several other people were craning over their balconies; a few had actually emerged from the building to see at close quarters what was going on, but a second paramedic waved them away.

The arrival of several police cars confirmed the impression that the situation was indeed serious, but it was not until some time later that they learned that the body of Fenella Tremaine had been found in one of the rubbish skips.

‘Y
ou know something,' said Detective Constable Vicky Armstrong to her colleague, Detective Constable Sukey Reynolds, ‘I reckon the villains must have gone on holiday . . . we haven't had a serious new case for a couple of weeks.'

‘Which is why we've all been asked to have another go at cases that have run into the sand,' said Sukey. ‘As it's our turn to cover the weekend shift, at least it gives us something to do.'

‘I reckon we got the short straw,' Vicky grumbled. ‘It's obvious there was nothing suspicious about this residential home death.' She leaned back in her chair and flexed her shoulders. ‘I have a feeling it's only because the woman's son is some local bigwig and is threatening to sue the police for negligence that DCI Leach has agreed to take another look at it.'

‘He's probably after some massive amount of compensation,' said Sukey.

‘They say he's a millionaire several times over,' Vicky pointed out.

Sukey grinned. ‘Maybe he's keeping an expensive mistress.' She pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘Let's nip to the canteen for a cuppa.'

‘Good idea.'

At that moment, Detective Sergeant Greg Rathbone strode through the door of the CID office and bore down on them. ‘Forget the cuppa; put whatever you're doing on hold and be in DCI Leach's office in ten minutes. That includes you three as well,' he added to the other members of his team, DCs Mike Haskins, Tim Pringle and Penny Osborne, who were seated at their desks working on similar assignments. There was a note of anticipation in the chorus of ‘Right, Sarge!' that greeted the instruction.

‘Something interesting happened, Sarge?' asked Vicky.

‘Something big by the looks of things,' Mike remarked as he closed his case file and slid it into a drawer.

‘You'll soon find out,' Rathbone snapped and marched out of the room without another word.

‘He didn't look very happy,' said Penny. ‘I wonder if there's been some sort of cock-up and someone's pointed the finger at us.'

‘Not necessarily,' said Sukey. ‘He may have personal problems – he's been on edge for the past few days.'

‘Well, you seem to know him better than we do,' Vicky remarked, not without a hint of resentment.

‘He has confided in me once or twice,' Sukey admitted. ‘But I don't ask questions – I just leave it to him if he wants to get something off his chest.'

Vicky shrugged. ‘If you say so.'

When the team entered his office, DCI Leach was seated at his desk with a mug of coffee in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other.

‘Any of you know Sycamore Park?' he asked.

‘Yes sir, it's a rather posh block of flats just north of the Downs,' said Penny. ‘They have a Neighbourhood Watch arrangement with PC Dandridge from the local nick. It's pretty quiet, so he tells me – just an occasional case of theft from an unlocked car or attempt to break into one of the garages.'

‘You know Dandridge then?' said Leach. Behind his steel-framed glasses his keen blue eyes held a sympathetic twinkle.

Penny blushed. ‘Yes, sir, we've been out once or twice.'

‘Good. He should have some useful first hand information from their Neighbourhood Watch rep. You and he can liaise in the enquiry into something a bit more serious than the odd theft from a car.' The team waited expectantly as he paused before saying, ‘Murder, in fact. The caretaker at Sycamore Park, a chap called Wilkins, found one of the residents – a woman – lying on a heap of plastic bags of rubbish in a skip. He thought at first she'd been taken ill while dumping some rubbish in the skip and just toppled in. He called an ambulance, but when the paramedics arrived they found the woman was dead and called the police. Uniformed are already in attendance, securing the scene.'

‘Do we have any idea of the cause of death, sir?' asked Sukey.

‘According to initial reports, the body was partially covered by a bag of rubbish that the caretaker heaved into the skip before he noticed it. When they moved it to one side to check her pulse they noticed a knife between her shoulder blades.'

‘Well, that saves us the trouble of hunting for the weapon,' Rathbone commented. ‘What's the betting it's a standard kitchen knife anyone could buy from a high street store anywhere?' he added gloomily.

‘We may be lucky there, Greg,' said Leach. ‘The initial report mentions that the handle is quite distinctive – it could be oriental.'

Rathbone shrugged. ‘Well, there are quite a few of those around as well. Some people bring them home as souvenirs. How many flats are there in Sycamore Park, by the way?'

‘Forty, in two separate blocks; that means a lot of house-to-house visits. I've had a word with the Super and he's given me the OK to draft in extra uniformed to get statements from all the residents and pass them to you. You will weed out anything that looks remotely useful and farm them out among your team.'

‘Right, sir. Has Doc Handley been informed?'

‘Yes, he's on his way to the scene, so you get down there ASAP with one of your DCs.'

‘As they say, there's not much doubt about the cause of death, Sarge,' said Sukey as she surveyed the body. The woman was lying half on her side across a heap of black plastic bags full of household waste that were piled almost to the top of a large green skip, one of three standing against the brick wall of the shed. A knife with an elaborately carved handle protruded from her back. ‘A pretty distinctive weapon, too – there can't be that many of that particular design around.'

Rathbone grunted. ‘Let's hope you're right. With luck someone will recognize it and come forward.' He swung round on his heel and spoke to the nearest member of the team of uniformed officers who were enclosing with plastic tape an area that included a wide space round the shed as well as the tarmac path leading to it. ‘Tell that lot to get out of the way!' he shouted at the nearest police officer, indicating with a wave of his hand the curious crowd of onlookers who were trying to see what was going on. ‘This is a crime scene and we don't want people trampling around destroying evidence.'

‘Right, Sarge.' The officer raised his voice a fraction and said, ‘Please, ladies and gentlemen, keep well out of the way. If any of you saw anything, or has any information that you think will help us, please wait to speak to a detective. Otherwise, give us your names and addresses and then go home. There's nothing for you to see. A statement will be issued later.' He made shooing gestures with his hands and the crowd, which by this time numbered fifteen or so, reluctantly withdrew a short distance, stopped beside a line of parked cars, and waited.

‘Here's Doc Hanley,' said Sukey, nodding in the direction of a white Ford Focus backing into an empty parking space. The pathologist got out and strode towards them, bag in hand.

‘That was quick,' Rathbone commented. ‘I don't recall anyone saying it was urgent.'

A faint smile flickered across Hanley's thin features. ‘I was on my way to the morgue when I got the message and it only meant a short detour so I thought I'd come straight here. Where's the body?'

‘In here.' Rathbone indicated the skip. Its hinged lid had been left open by the paramedics and had not, so far as he had been able to ascertain, been touched since they left.

Hanley studied the body in silence for a few moments. Then he glanced upwards and said, ‘I take it you want the lid of the skip left open?'

‘That's how it was when the paramedics found it. We haven't questioned the caretaker – the man who found the body – so we don't know if that's how the killer left it.'

Hanley grunted. ‘Better get a tent up in case it rains. That roof doesn't look very waterproof.'

‘I've already ordered one.'

‘Good.'

For the next few minutes the two detectives stood and watched as the pathologist, with long, delicate fingers, gently probed the area round the neck and eyes. After a few moments he straightened up. ‘It's more than likely the cause of death was the knife wound,' he said, ‘but I can't be sure until I get her on the slab.'

‘What about the time of death?' asked Rathbone.

‘There's dried blood on the clothing round the wound, but not enough of it to give an accurate estimate at this stage.'

‘Any idea if she was killed here, or brought here after death?'

Hanley's grin included both Rathbone and Sukey, who had been taking careful notes. ‘You're the detectives. Send her along once the CSIs have done their stuff and I'll do my best.'

Rathbone nodded. ‘Thanks Doc, will do.' The containment of the scene had been completed and the team were awaiting further instructions. He went over to the sergeant in charge and said, ‘What about the man who found the body?'

‘That was the caretaker.' The sergeant referred to his notebook. ‘His name's Frederick Wilkins and he has a flat on the ground floor of the other block. According to the paramedics he seemed calm enough when they arrived – he didn't see the knife as it was concealed by the bag of rubbish he'd just lobbed into the skip – but when he heard the woman was dead he had a bit of wobbly so they told him to go and sit down over there.' The sergeant pointed to a wooden seat, one of several placed at intervals round the lawn.