Double You
Nell Peters
Copyright by Nell Peters 2011
Smashwords Edition
The Rose Huntingford Series: Book One
Like blue eyes, cold-blooded murder was in his genes.
Chapter One
When a phone rings at 03.37, it’s never good news.
As Rose Huntingford opened her eyes, she knew the irritating sound augured news of some poor soul’s violent demise; someone who would never again wake to the dawn chorus or gaze at the beauty of a field of daffodils in spring. She fantasised, not for the first time in recent weeks, about a proper job with social hours, where a dead-of-night summons to duty would be unthinkable. No more dead bodies…and if she could vegetate between coffee and lunch breaks, so much the better.
She made no attempt to write down the basic details relayed during a brief conversation with her sergeant - whilst her cognitive process generally kicked in to order, her co-ordination tended to dawdle some way behind. Repeating the address on a loop in her head and ignoring the chill of the room, she dressed in jeans, t-shirt and sweater, before visiting the bathroom to splash water on her face and brush her teeth. She deliberately kept her eyes lowered to avoid the mirror’s ruthless reflection of the ‘after’ image, warning of the folly of an unhealthy lifestyle for ladies of a certain age. Not three minutes had elapsed before she grabbed her coat and was out of the house.
Rose parked in bumper to bumper between police vehicles, hauled out the protective suiting she was required to wear and tugged it on, up over her clothes. She felt vulnerable, exposed by flashing blue lights that lit up the tree-lined avenue in one of the more salubrious areas of town, where backlit human silhouettes milled around – some with legitimate purpose, others rubber necking. Aware from experience the killer could be mingling amongst them and watching her every move, she stepped up her pace.
PC Atkins yawned, “Morning, Chief Inspector,” as she manoeuvred her plump body under striped incident tape, “it’s a nasty one…” His face shone deathly luminous in the artificial glow.
She shot him a glare, “Murder does tend to be.”
With care, she followed a pathway of pads placed to prevent contamination of evidence up a wide, curved staircase and into an imposing bedroom suite at the front of the house. Her eyes skimmed the scene noting several - in her personal opinion, as someone who knew what they liked - gaudy modern artworks hung on white walls; large areas of blood spatter above the bed could so easily have been their mural equivalent. The sour odour of vomit found her nostrils – someone had corrupted the crime scene and she knew the SOCO people would have something to say about that.
Hovering plain-clothes officers acknowledged her presence with a series of eloquent nods; gripping a notebook, Sergeant Brooks broke away from the group and approached her boss.
Rose spoke first, “What have we got, Liz?”
The much younger woman counted off on her fingers, gnashing gum as she spoke, “No sign of forced entry, a serious sexual assault – probably not full-blown rape, according to the doc – and a frenzied attack with a small, very sharp blade. Something like an old-fashioned cutthroat razor, he thinks. The victim’s throat was cut deep and wide, almost severing her windpipe. She put up quite a fight – there are numerous defensive wounds on her arms and the small finger on her left hand is hanging off.”
Rose shivered and felt her stomach lurch – not a good sign, before she’d even viewed the body. Both women remained silent for a few seconds while Liz cuffed her mouth roughly with the back of a gloved hand.
“Do we have an identification, or time of death?”
“Yes, Guv – both; the body has been identified by Sean Walters as that of his wife Cleo, aged thirty-three. He found her when he came home in the early hours, after a night on the town with clients – it was him who puked on the carpet. Time of death was somewhere around midnight – the doc’s best estimate at this stage. He’s waiting to speak to you in the bedroom opposite.
“Where is Mr Walters?”
“House next door. Lydia Harman from uniform is looking after him and his two daughters over there.”
Rose tensed and clenched her fists, “The children were here when the attack took place?”
“Yup, in the nursery on the attic floor.”
“But they weren’t harmed in any way?”
“No, thankfully they slept through the whole thing. Poor little mites are only five and six.”
“Let’s hope they are too young to understand what’s going on.”
Liz’s face softened, “Yeah. They’re adorable, like two peas in a pod; Isabelle and Eloise.”
“Your first impressions of Mr Walters? I’ll accept one of your gut feelings.”
“Essex boy made good. You’d probably want to count your fingers after he’s shaken your hand. Shock seems genuine enough – he’s very groggy and a bit out of it, but there’s no question his concern for the girls is real. He won’t let go of them – and just from speaking to him, I can’t picture him killing his wife while the kids were in the house. Other than that, I wasn’t able to get much.”
“Okay, thanks – I’d better take a look at the body.” She hesitated, clutching at any excuse, “By the way, I noticed the dining table…what was the occasion?”
“Their anniversary – Mrs Walters had cooked a special dinner. It’s in the bin.”
“Mm…so he didn’t bother to turn up?”
“He says it was a surprise – he didn’t know what she had planned.”
“Even so…did he come home laden with flowers, champagne…anything at all?”
“I’ll make sure, but I don’t think so.”
“I see. How many years – did you ask?”
“Eight – that’s bronze, or pottery.”
Rose looked bemused, “How do you know that, Miss Brooks?”
“One of my sisters clocked up eight a few months ago and my mum is a mine of useless information; oh, before you ask, I haven’t come across a gift-wrapped Ming vase either.”
She allowed herself a tight smile, “Anything from knocking on doors?”
Liz shook her titian ponytail, “Not so far.”
As Rose approached the foot of the bed, Liz caught her sleeve and whispered, “Better brace yourself.”
“Thanks for the warning. Oh – and Liz…”
“Guv?”
“Lose the gum.”
No one interrupted her, as she took in the tableau of what was by any measure a horrific crime – it was the way she preferred to work and her team members respected that, giving her the space she needed.
She stared at the bed, saturated with blood – so much so that not all of it had been absorbed. The covers were in extreme disarray, indicating a struggle and the ornate, Victorian bedstead showed traces of aluminium powder where it had been dusted for prints. She doubted they would gain anything from that – the public generally and villains in particular being far too forensically aware to make such a basic error, thanks to wall-to-wall crime shows on TV.
Finally, she focussed on Cleo, who had been a lovely – perhaps beautiful – young woman. The phrase ‘frenzied attack’ was, she felt, bandied around far too lightly, both by some of her colleagues and the media – but in this case it didn’t begin to describe what had taken place. She gulped down a surge of bile in her throat, switched her powers of observation to automatic and moved around the bed to get a better look at the mutilations and the body’s position.
What happened, Cleo? Who did this to you?
Despite more than two decades in the job, Rose had never managed to come to terms with the way one supposedly human being could inflict cruel and disfiguring injury on another, especially without apparent motive. According to the doc, this was not a rape and it certainly wasn’t a burglary gone wrong – the value of items displayed around the bedroom alone would easily surpass her annual salary. And the absence of forced entry nagged at her more and more.
Did you know them – did you let them in?
She’d long since developed the technique of studying a corpse without contemplating the living person it represented. When life was snatched away by an act of violence and the madness – whether temporary or otherwise – of an attacker, Rose saw it as her duty to do her best for the voiceless victim, to enforce their right to posthumous justice.
She asked the on-call pathologist, “In your opinion are we dealing with a male perpetrator, Karl?”
“Almost certainly, Rose m’dear. This was a face-on attack, where a degree of strength was required to hold the victim in place while her throat was sliced – by a right-hander, incidentally. She’d been drinking, though not excessively and I’d say she fell asleep on the bed fully clothed before waking to find her attacker in the room, most likely standing over her.”
“It was the killer who stripped her bottom half?”
“I think so, yes – those trousers have been flung, not stepped out of and the zip is damaged…I rather doubt there are many women who would treat designer labels thus.”
Rose looked closely, “I’ve never possessed any really posh clothes, but I do see what you mean.”
He cleared his throat, “The poor woman stood no chance of making a run for it, but she was young and fit and fought hard to live – apart from slashes to the arms, there is discolouration to the torso and forearms where considerable pressure was applied. I don’t think I’m being presumptuous to surmise our killer had to kneel upon her to pin her down. And strands of hair were yanked from the follicles, suggesting he grabbed hold of a clump – also to keep her still, I imagine. All this ties in with the angle of the wound.”
Rose recalled Cleo’s long, auburn curls spread across an embroidered silk pillow.
How could anyone hate you that much? Death wasn’t enough, they had to destroy and disfigure – why did they want to make you ugly?
When Dr Steinberg snapped his medical bag shut, it jolted her attention back to their conversation.
“All this and more will be confirmed when I’ve had a chance to take a proper look, of course.”
“Thanks, Karl. Any idea when you’ll be able to let us know your findings?”
He sighed and shook his head, but smiled, “About lunch time suit you?”
She returned the smile, brushed his elbow with her fingertips. “Brilliant, thanks.”
“My pleasure – now if the late Mr Abbot has finished taking his holiday snaps, I’ll have the body removed.”
“He did apologise – his car wouldn’t start.”
Liz called from the doorway, “Guv?”
“Yes?”
“Is it alright if Mr Walters takes the children over to his in-laws?”
“Yes – ask Lydia to drive them and get contact details. I’ll interview him there later this morning.”
“Will do.”
“And tell her the squad will meet at 8.00am sharp - I’d like her in on this case… I’ll clear it with her CO. You should both try and grab another half hour in bed.”
“Guv.”
Rose turned back to Karl, “I’ll see you later.”
“It’s a date, m’dear.”
Officers and SOCO gradually filtered from the room as Rose once more studied the scene. Now that the body was en route for the mortuary, her stomach had given up on threatening to disgrace her. And she was grateful she no longer – except in her mind’s eye – had Cleo staring at her with that terrified, confused expression and Gunther von Hagen neck.
Come on, Cleo, work with me here. Let’s catch this bastard.
It was minutes past 7.00am when Rose walked into the office, after a quick detour home to shower and change.
DC Ali Khan was already there, sitting at his desk drinking coffee from the machine. The newest conscript to her squad, he was a keen young buck who aimed to shoot up the promotion ladder in as short a time as possible – and she suspected it wouldn’t much matter to him how many bodies he had to trample to get there. He proclaimed himself a ‘modern Muslim’ and the new face of British policing – the inference that she represented the old face, was not lost on Rose.
“Morning, Ali,” she said, “Do you want another coffee?”
“No thanks, Guv, I’ve got too much respect for my stomach lining,” he patted his toned gut and smirked.
Rose waited for the plastic cup to clunk down and fill with anonymous liquid. “Didn’t you go home?”
“Nah, not really worth it – I’d rather crack on.”
“Were you on house-to-house earlier?”
“Yes, Guv – no joy. No one seems to have seen or heard anything, until all hell let loose when Mr Walters came home and found his wife.”
“Poor man. Not the greatest anniversary gift.”
“No. I didn’t speak to him, but Liz seemed to think he was kosher.”
Rose nodded, “She told me.” That niggle again; “Strange there was no forced entry…”
“Well, I’d bet living in an arm and leg gaff like that, they’d have at least one cleaner – and maybe someone to look after the kids, or do the gardening; potentially there’s a lot of spare keys floating around.”
“That’s something I can check with Sean Walters later – see how many people have legitimate access to the place. Was the alarm activated?”
“No – well, Mrs Walters was expecting her husband home.”
“Mm…God, this coffee is shit.” She tossed cup and liquid into a bin.
The door swung open and Liz Brooks walked through, in tandem with Lydia Harman.
“Morning, Guv,” said Liz.
A more formal, “Morning, ma’am,” from Lydia.
“Morning, ladies. Liz – let me see the notes from your conversation with Mr Walters, would you?”
Liz stretched to hand them over, “Right here, Guv.”
Rose sat at her desk and put on glasses to read. She learned nothing to set her heart racing. “So, he was out on the razzle with a client, Richard Kelly?”
“That’s right – I’ve got an appointment with him at lunchtime. Kelly’s business partner, Samuel Cross was with them initially, but he ducked out early and left the others to it.”
“Oh? Why was that?”
“A long-standing dinner arrangement; I’ll check it out.”
“Do that. It’s a pity Mr Walters didn’t leave with him.”
“The world is full of should-haves. If I’d dieted more when I was a teenager, I could be a globetrotting supermodel by now.”
Rose smiled – Liz was very slim, but had a face like a squashed bug. “Have you requested relevant CCTV footage?”
“Yes – with a bit of luck we should be able to track him round town and verify his movements.”
“Good old Big Brother. How did we ever manage without those sneaky little cameras recording our every fart?”
“When they’re working!” scoffed Ali.
“Mm…when Michel Foucault wrote about the surveillance society, I think he assumed they’d be kept in working order.”
“Foo-who?” asked Liz.
“Weirdo Frenchman, wore funny hats and liked the sound of his own voice… Heavily into discourses. Now, what about you, Lydia? Anything to add?”
Blushing, she pulled herself up straight, “No, ma’am…well, except Mr Walters seemed very confused – I should have thought that if you came home to find your house a bloodbath and your wife murdered, you’d sober up pretty smart-ish. He was off with the fairies and couldn’t even remember where he’d been half the night – he had no concept of time at all.”
Although muted alarm bells rang for Rose, she held onto her thoughts, “Alright, I’ll bear that in mind.”
Jonty Simms’ phone buzzed, just as he strolled up to his desk. A Cambridge graduate, he was, as always, dressed immaculately in a well-tailored suit with colour co-ordinated shirt and tie. Rose much admired the understated intelligence he brought to his work, even though she often felt like a bag lady in his sartorially elegant presence.
“Simms.” He raised his chin and jutted it toward Rose; “Okay, I’ll tell her – two minutes.” He replaced the receiver, “Morning, Guv. That was the desk sergeant – Kirsten Challoner, who is Cleo Walters’ sister, is downstairs and wondered if she might have a quick word.”
Rose heaved herself up, “She’s an early bird. You can all compare notes while I’m gone – and start an incident board.”
Kirsten Challoner had her back to Rose as she approached, “Miss Challoner?” When she turned around, Rose gasped, “Oh my God!”
Kirsten pulled her lips, though didn’t manage a smile, “We are…were identical twins.”
Rose was flustered, “I apologise…you’re just so…um…”
“Identical?”
“Err, yes – sorry. It’s err…”
Kirsten pursed those lips and tapped her foot. She swung a blue Damask bag embroidered with the initials KEDC over her shoulder, so that Rose could be in no doubt whom she was dealing with.
Rose pulled herself together, “I’m very sorry for your loss, Miss Challoner.” When Rose extended her hand, Kirsten didn’t respond. “I’m DCI Rose Huntingford and I’ll be heading the investigation into your sister’s murder. I’m a fraternal twin myself and I understand the unique relationship you would have shared. Now, how may I help you?”
Kirsten snapped, “Cleo was killed by her husband – of that I have no doubt. I expect you to charge him without delay.”
Taken by surprise at her aggression, Rose half laughed, “I can assure you, Miss Challoner, that my team will be both professional and thorough, leaving no stone or motive unturned.”
The tall woman took a calming breath before she huffed, “I would expect nothing less.”
The myriad ways in which grief can affect people never ceased to amaze Rose. She added softly, “However, I must point out that apart from anything else, your sister’s assailant would have been covered in blood – and Mr Walters was not.”
“I’m telling you he did it, although I’m willing to concede that it may not have been him who struck the fatal blow. With his array of shady acquaintances he would have been spoiled for choice for someone to pay to do his dirty work. Sean married Cleo for her money – well, our father’s money at least and he’s done very nicely out of the arrangement.”
Rose wondered if the twins’ parents shared Kirsten’s assessment of the union, or whether she was merely jealous of what her sister had – she wore no wedding or engagement ring, although there was the merest trace of a white line on that finger.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get to court. You’ll keep me informed of your progress?”
Rose nodded agreement, fingers crossed behind her back so it didn’t count.
Kirsten called over her shoulder, “He’s guilty – you’ll see,” as she barged through the main doors, knocking a frail old man off-balance. Rose couldn’t help but feel sorry for anyone the barrister might cross-examine that day.
Frustratingly, Sean Walters’ GP had sedated him and Rose was unable to conduct any form of interview. She left the Challoners’ rambling pile in bad humour after failing to get past their ‘Mrs Danvers’ housekeeper, with time to kill before she went to hassle Karl Steinberg for his report.
Tempted by an infusion of real caffeine, she sat at a table for two in the window of an overpriced coffee shop, only to leap up again seconds later, when she read the headline of an early edition of the evening paper, left on a neighbouring table:
Twin Witnesses Brother’s Horrific Murder
Chapter Two
As he tinkered with surgical instruments, denying her his full attention, Dr Steinberg asked distractedly, “So you think there may be a connection?”
She stared at him in disbelief, “Yes, Karl! What do you think the odds are against two individuals who both happen to be twins, being murdered in the space of a few hours – and in reasonably close proximity?”
He shrugged, replaced a bloodied scalpel on the instrument tray and faced her, “I’ve no idea, Rose - pretty long I imagine. Were the second set also identical?”
“From the little information Liz has been able to glean so far, yes.”
He regarded her solemnly and his chins folded in on one another, “Ah…I do perhaps begin to see your point.”
Hands on hips, she paced up and down one side of the metal gurney that supported Cleo Walters’ shrouded body – Rose hoped it was going to stay that way. Making swishing noises in a green gown that was too long and threatened to trip her up, she continued, “Where conception occurs naturally, only around three per cent of births result in the delivery of monozygotic twins; three per cent!”
He grinned, his demeanour that of indulgent great uncle, “Yes, Rose – I went to medical school, remember?” He sighed, “Some days I even remembered to take notes.”
She stopped pacing, bit her bottom lip, “Sorry…it’s just that no one else seems able to grasp the significance of that rarity – they are content to accept the two cases as separate entities, a mere coincidence.”
“What happened to the second victim? Was he or she seen off in a similar fashion to our Mrs Walters?”
“No, Rory Page was pushed under a Tube train this morning, while his brother stood helplessly by on the platform, poor man.”
Karl growled, “That’s a tough one – he’ll be suffering from guilt and flashbacks for some time to come, no doubt. Bereaved twins sometimes never fully recover from their loss – they always have the feeling that part of their very soul is missing.” He chuckled, “Silly me - I was forgetting you know all about the bonds of multiple births. Presumably, you have any number of witnesses?”
“I don’t have any witnesses – it’s not my case, unless I can persuade the powers that be there has to be a link and so get it transferred to my squad. But to answer your question, the platform must have been heaving with commuters at the time – in fact, I’m amazed more people don’t meet their death that way, just by being jostled over the edge accidentally. Unfortunately, only a small minority will have been in a position to see anything of use. I hope CCTV was doing its stuff at the time.”
“Aren’t the screens monitored constantly?”
“In theory – but have you ever tried to hold an intelligent conversation with a London Transport employee?”
Belching out tobacco fumes, he wheezed, “Hah! Now, about Cleo Walters.”
Her lips twitched; she felt stressed, the searing bright lights made her head hurt and the intermingling odours of Pathology were starting to affect her, even though she’d smeared a generous dab of Vicks ointment under her nostrils before entering the swing doors. “Forgive me, Karl – I didn’t mean to chew your ear off. It’s just so infuriating.”
“I can appreciate that, m’dear, but I’m afraid I have a budget crunching meeting to attend shortly with a bunch of overpaid, under-productive hospital ‘suits’ and must therefore reclaim use of my auditory organ – for now, at least.”
She took a calming breath, “Anything of significance come to light during the PM?”
“Yes,” he rubbed his hands together, “but first, I shall confirm my earlier findings.” He adjusted the thick spectacles that had slipped halfway down the bridge of his sweaty nose and consulted his notes; “Time of death was indeed around midnight, give or take thirty minutes at most, I’d say. Now, although Mrs Walters was not actually raped, she was sexually assaulted in a most sadistic manner, resulting in much bruising to the upper thighs and genitals - some tearing as well and a profusion of internal injuries.” Noticing Rose’s sudden loss of colour he moved swiftly on, “In my experience, that is more a manifestation of hatred or the desire to dominate and control, rather than a quest for sexual gratification. Other compression marks now more evident on the torso support my theory that the victim was pinned down prior to death and almost certainly knelt upon. It’s hard to visualise any other way that particular pattern of oedema and bruising would have occurred…and the upward angle of the incision to the throat – most particularly noticeable on the trachea - bears that out.”
“It’s sounding more and more like she must have known her killer…sexually defiled, but not raped, no forced entry to the house. The attack was malicious and destructive, demonstrating the power of one individual over another – an act of revenge, perhaps? But without understanding the motive here, that’s pure speculation.”
“I can’t comment, m’dear – I forgot to collect my Ouija board from it’s MOT, though given the overall circumstances, you may have a line of enquiry suggesting itself.”
A thread of doubt wormed its way through her mind and she wondered if Kirsten Challoner might have been right, after all – but then, how would Rory Page fit into the picture? Could she accept there was even the remotest chance he had been the victim of a random attack, unconnected to Cleo’s murder? No, she couldn’t - not without some very concrete evidence to that effect.
Karl cleared his throat noisily and went on, “Our victim had been punched hard in the face – her lips were lacerated and several front teeth were loosened in the gums. Pressure bruising to the cheeks fits the imprint of a male-sized hand clamped over the mouth – the positioning of those marks is another tick in the box for her having been knelt upon. You look rather queasy, m’dear – am I being too grisly?”
Though he’d surpassed grisly a while ago, Rose couldn’t allow herself to admit as much; she smiled weakly, “I’m fine, please continue.”
“If you’re sure…the attacker had tried – unsuccessfully - to remove the victim’s rather splendid and no doubt very valuable wedding and engagement rings. There was bruising to the knuckle and general swelling on that finger.”
“Not a professional hit then.”
“No, but I think that much was evident anyway, from the frenzied manner of the attack and the sheer profusion of wounding – no self-respecting pro would have made such a bloody mess.”
She nodded, “That’s true.”
“Now, I must ask; did the Walters have a good marriage, do you know?”
A frown dropped between her eyebrows, “So far I’ve heard nothing to refute that, but the only family member I’ve spoken to is her sister, who seems to dislike Sean Walters intensely; which is not necessarily indicative of the state of the marriage – more a personal distrust of the individual, I feel. Why do you ask?”
“Because within the last year – more likely six to nine months, I’d say, Mrs Walters underwent a clinical abortion.”
“Oh? That is odd…very odd…”
“Because of the plethora of internal injuries, I almost missed the signs.”
“It’s not what you’d expect if they were a deliriously happy couple.”
Karl wagged a cautionary nicotine-stained finger, “Now don’t go jumping to conclusions, Rose. There are many reasons why pregnant women opt for a termination – not all of them sinister. There may, for instance, have been something seriously wrong with the developing foetus. Her GP should be able to enlighten you in that respect.”
“Okay, but it does raise the possibility that one or other had an affair. She aborted either because it was another man’s child, or her husband had been playing away and she felt too wounded or resentful to carry his baby to term.”
“Those are only two of many possibilities, as I said. And not in keeping with the anniversary dinner she had prepared. I can tell you, to help with your process of elimination, that there was nothing physically wrong with Cleo – by that I mean nothing to prevent her giving birth naturally.” He folded his arms and rested them on his belly, looked disapproving, “That’s minus the latest surgical must-have, of course - the elective caesarean section to ensure the baby doesn’t arrive at an inopportune or inconvenient moment.”
“Mm…and the knife wounds?”
“Particularly unpleasant – in the form of sustained slashing; I’d surmise aimed at the face, buoying up the suggestion of hate and destruction, but largely deflected by the victim’s self-defensive arm movements – unusually, she doesn’t appear to have tried to grab the knife. There were no tell-tale palm injuries, although one little finger sustained major trauma. As I mentioned earlier, a cutthroat is favourite for the weapon – either that, or one of those.” He pointed to his impressive collection of scalpels lined up as troops. “It was a barbaric attack, when all is said and done.”
“And our man would definitely have been heavily bloodstained when he left the scene?”
“Oh, undoubtedly; some of those ante mortem wounds would have produced significant arterial spray – difficult to avoid being hit, when he must of necessity have been in very close proximity to her. If your man was blessed with foresight, he would have donned protective clothing.”
Rose shuddered, decided to wind up the consultation and avail herself of all other facts by reading the report. She found that sanitized the gore element to a certain extent, so that she could retain some detachment – if it wasn’t already too late in this case. The cause and manner of death became marginally less gruesome via the written word, rather than when she listened in person to a blow-by-blow account of the victim’s last moments. “Thanks, Karl – not a nice way to go, was it?”
“Certainly not a quick and merciful death, m’dear – the killer must have caused the unfortunate woman a high degree of fear and pain before he finished her off by cutting her throat, which itself was not instantaneous. To cut that deeply…well, I don’t have to draw you a diagram. This is not someone you’d want to upset in a dark alley.”
She took the brown envelope he proffered, “I really appreciate you speeding this through, Karl. Now, I’ll let you escape to cook the books.”
“Hah! I seem to spend half my time these days, justifying my existence and that of my department. Oh, by the way, forensics found traces of something interesting on the pillow – you should contact them direct for the low down.”
“Okay, I’ll do that. Can I get back to you if there’s anything in the report I don’t fully understand?”
As he made a rasping, sniggering noise, his chins and belly wobbled, “You must know as much as I do about pathology by now, m’dear – but feel free to do so.” He performed a stiff little bow, folding his body as far as his girth would allow. “Always at your service.”
She drove back to the station in slow-moving traffic – since she couldn’t justify a flashing blue light she tried to think tranquil thoughts and not get wound up by other road users’ shenanigans. She slipped a Mozart CD into the player, but opted for silence after only a few bars of The Magic Flute and thumped the off button. Rose felt ridiculously sad that Cleo had aborted her baby, for whatever reason – the daft romantic in her wanted to believe the Walters and their children had enjoyed a blissful existence before fate intervened to ruin everything; so much for detachment. Her phone rang.
It was Tim Bowles, her ‘friend’ for the last decade – someone she’d once hoped would provide her with the ‘happy ever after’ element of life, but who was now fading fast to more-off-than-on-lover status. Today, her feelings languished in the doldrums for her prince who turned out to be a frog. She briefly considered abandoning him to her message service, but relented – she’d only have to talk to him later.
“Tim, how are you?” The words echoed back to her as a very formal opening gambit toward someone she’d know all that time – and the only person to share her bed for many moons, if only sporadically.
“Hi Rose, just thought I’d give you a quick buzz, see how you are – I haven’t heard from you for a few days.”
She noted the onus was on her to make any effort required and distractedly fiddled with the hands-free contraption that always made her earlobe sore, “Sorry, it’s been a busy time at work.”
“No surprise there, then - I wondered if you’re up for a drink tonight.”
Her heart sank, “I can’t, I’m afraid – I need an early night to catch up on sleep. Could we make it another time? Soon, I promise.” She sensed him bristle.
“Oh…we’ve seen so little of each other lately and as I haven’t got any evening work on this week, I thought we should make the most of it. But if you’re not keen…”
She hated it when he played the martyr, “Unfortunately, I have been working evenings – well, one evening anyway and it was more like dead of night. We have a savage murder case on the go – possibly two – and I’ve no doubt we’ll be burning the midnight oil. Anyway, I thought you were playing at the Crown and Anchor this week?”
“Not anymore – the lead singer’s brother-in-law’s brother-in-law plays keyboard too, so they’ve dropped me; the joys of being a session musician.”
“Ah, that’s too bad – although I still have to take a rain check.”
“Well perhaps you’d be good enough to get back to me, when you can fit me into your hectic schedule?”
Rose sighed at his predictable sarcasm, a tactic he always resorted to when she couldn’t or wouldn’t jump through his hoop – while her attention strayed she almost shunted the car in front when it braked suddenly, causing her to do the same. “Shit! No, I didn’t mean you...please don’t be like that, Tim, these poor people haven’t gotten themselves killed just to piss you off.” She wasn’t in the mood for this conversation, “Look, I have to go – I’ll call you anon.” She disconnected before he had a chance to argue.
She stopped for a drink at the machine en route to her desk. Scanning the room, she saw no sign of Liz, which annoyed her – although she accepted that was a totally unreasonable reaction. Combined with fatigue, the conversation with Tim had made her scratchy.
She asked Jonty, “Where’s Liz?”
“Popped out to buy a sandwich, Guv – she shouldn’t be long. Can I help?”
“I doubt it – I want to hear what else she’s found out about the Rory Page murder.”
“Oh right…sorry, I don’t know much about that. I do know she had no joy at all with Richard Kelly, Sean Walters’ client. He claimed drunkard’s amnesia after about nine o’clock last night.” He eyed the file she held, “Is that the PM report on Cleo Walters?”
She flapped the envelope, “Preliminary, yes. Can you call forensics for me to see if they’ve identified the substance on Cleo’s pillow yet?”
He smiled, “Will do.” His silky black skin accentuated the whiteness of perfect teeth – Rose always found it impossible not to respond to one of Jonty’s infectious smiles. Her shoulders relaxed a few notches.
Just as Liz entered, swinging a small paper carrier and sipping from a bottle of mineral water, Jonty put down the phone.
Rose asked, “Two minutes, Liz?” Liz nodded. She turned her attention to DC Simms, “What news from forensics?”
He checked his pad, “There were tiny smears of theatrical makeup on the pillow – its constituents differ from ordinary makeup, apparently. Smell of the greasepaint and all that – strange thing is, the minute particles were present in several colours; black, cobalt, green, white and red, as well as flesh. Quite a spectrum…”
“Really? Do we know if either of the Walters were into amateur dramatics, or anything along those lines?”
“No, Guv – I’ll see what I can find out. And I’ll get onto local suppliers, if there are any – ask what their turnover is and who is most likely to buy what.”
Shrugging out of her coat, she said, “Good man. Right, Liz – what have you got on Rory Page?”
“Well, talk about weird, Guv – there was a clown in full make up and regalia very near to him on the platform, when he was pushed.”
Chapter Three
With a satisfied smirk dimpling her cheeks, Rose strode down the narrow corridor past numerous pre-fabricated offices with frosted glass windows, on her way back to the squad room. Her sensible, flat shoes with rubber soles made not a sound.
Aware that certain members of the squad thought she was barking up the wrong tree and reading far more than she should into a connection between the Walters and Page murders, she remained utterly convinced the cases were in some way intermingled.
Superintendent Simeon Smith had followed without comment the argument she’d presented to him in favour of transferring the Page enquiry to her squad. A cadaverous, short man, with a nose you could hang your hat on, the only thing he inspired in the officers serving under him was a fervent desire to see him take early retirement and be shipped off to the home for useless, lip-serving policemen. His one saving grace – when the circumstances were right - was that he was malleable. And Rose had by chance happened upon a perfect set of circumstances - Smith desperately wanted to score points off his opposite number, who had recently beat him decisively at a round of golf when they were both guests of the Chief Constable.
While she’d sat patiently on an uncomfortably hard leather chair in his panelled office, listening to him smarm and cajole his way through the telephone conversation, she wished someone would take him home and feed him up, so that his uniform ceased to hang off his body like an advertisement appealing for aid to a starving continent. She drew the line, however, at doing it herself; she wasn’t that desperate – or charitable.
As she made her entrance, she announced, “Right! We now have two murders to solve – let’s crack open the deerstalkers, sharpen our pencils and get a strategy in place.”
Jonty betrayed no emotion whatsoever, “Guv.”
“Well done, ma’am,” said Lydia, blushing attractively.
“Liz whistled through her teeth, “Blimey, Guv, we’ll have our work cut out -without a DI.”
Only Ali remained silent. Rose imagined him calculating how a major success – such as being involved in solving these two cases - wouldn’t hurt his chances of promotion any, once he’d passed his sergeant’s exams in a few weeks’ time. She’d also wondered periodically what Jonty’s career plan was – but that was something he’d never sought to confide in her…which was his prerogative, no matter how nosy she wanted to be.
They gathered into a small group around Ali’s desk. Rose said, “I don’t need to point out to everyone that it’s coming up to three o’clock – our all-important first few hours are ticking away. As I see it, our priorities should be - one - to get hold of everything pertaining to the Page murder – can I leave that with you, Lydia?”
She nodded enthusiastically, “Ma’am.”
“Two – interview Sean Walters as soon as possible, hopefully this afternoon - and at the same time take the opportunity to speak to Cleo’s parents to gauge the state of the marriage, get some background. Dr Steinberg discovered during his PM examination that Victim One underwent an abortion anything up to a year ago, but probably more recently. Liz, you’re with me for the interviews – I’ll take Mr Walters and you can talk to the Challoners. Okay?”
Liz stopped chewing briefly to answer, “Okay, Guv.”
“We won’t mention the termination mind, unless they do. I’m assuming they don’t know and they have more than enough sorrow in their lives right now.”
She nodded, “Understood.”
“Three – I’d like you, Jonty, firstly to continue sniffing along the greasepaint trail and when Lydia gets back, you can both go over the statements of witnesses on the platform when Victim Two died. You’ll need to study the CCTV tapes as well – it would be useful to have frame by frame insight to what happened.”
He smiled, “Will do, Guv.” She smiled back.
“Ali – last but not least, I want you to light a fire under that forensic photographer’s backside and get hold of the Walters crime scene photographs. He’s had plenty of time to fart around in his darkroom, or whatever they do now they’ve gone digital. Study the shots in minute detail – see if anything strikes you as odd or out of place.” The expression on Ali’s face didn’t flicker, but his eyes iced over. He’d hoped for something more gung-ho, no doubt – well, Rose had no intention of letting him run before he could walk. He’d hardly been there long enough to warm up his chair in the department. “I’d also like you to check through the house-to-house statements – same thing; anything that sings a wrong note, look into it.”
His face remained deadpan, “If you say so, Guv.”
“I do, Ali. And if you get through all that unscathed, check out the dinner party alibi given by Richard Kelly’s partner – what was his name, Liz?”
“Samuel Cross, Guv.”
While he was writing down the name and contact number given to him by Liz, the phone on his desk rang. He said, “Just a moment,” and held up the receiver for Rose. “Guv, it’s a Dr Roberts, asking to speak to you. He’s the Walters’ GP.”
Ah, the twit who sedated Sean, she thought, but also the person she needed to speak to about Cleo’s last pregnancy. She took the phone, “Thanks, Ali,” rested her buttocks on the side of his desk, “DCI Huntingford speaking – how can I help you, Dr Roberts?”
“Good afternoon to you,” he said, “I won’t beat about the bush, Chief Inspector – I have patients waiting.” Rose wondered why everyone always assumed they were far busier than she was. She said nothing and he continued, “I felt I should tell you that I took a blood sample from Mr Walters this morning.”
She was puzzled, “Why did you do that? It’s not standard procedure.”
“No, you’re quite right – I did so because I was somewhat alarmed by his behaviour. He was naturally in a state of shock and suffering the after effects of excess alcohol, but it was more than that – I suspected he might have been drugged.” That supported a vague suspicion Rose herself harboured, “I have treated several patients before – almost exclusively young women, I’m afraid, when they’ve been emerging from the fug that Rhohypnol and other so-called ‘date rape’ drugs will induce. They have exhibited the same air of disorientation and forgetfulness.”
Interest intensified in her belly, “Go on, Doctor.”
“I took the sample before I sedated Sean, of course…”
Get on with it, man! “Yes?”
“Well, he tested positive for GBL, which has a similar negative impact to Rhohypnol – when it is taken orally, it converts to GHB and can be a killer.”
“I’ve heard of that. So, the drug could have been administered to him in a drink last night and caused him to appear detached from reality – also the reason he had little or no recall of his movements for a high percentage of the time?”
“Exactly; I hope this information is of some use to your investigation?”
“Most certainly – thank you very much, Dr Roberts, for your quick thinking.”
“It’s almost impossible to detect any presence of the drug after twelve hours, or so – and I felt it necessary to act, with or without your authority. It goes without saying I had Mr Walters’ permission.”
“I understand – you did absolutely the right thing. You’ll let me have a copy of the lab’s report?”
“I will.”
“There is something else I’d like to ask you, Dr Roberts – it is of relevance to the case, but I’d prefer to speak in person.”
“Ah, I’m tied up for the rest of the day and I have a meeting with colleagues this evening – would tomorrow morning be alright? I could call into the station on my way to surgery.”
“Thank you, Doctor, I’d appreciate that.”
“Happy to help in any way I can, constable,” she ignored the instant demotion, “I’ve known Cleo and Sean socially for a few years now – her death, especially in such dreadful circumstances, is a great tragedy. I’m convinced Sean would never do anything to harm a hair on his wife’s head – and it looks like I’ve managed to prove his innocence for you, beyond a shadow of a doubt.”
“Mm…One last thing, Dr Roberts – when will I be able to interview Mr Walters?”
“Oh, anytime from now on, I should have thought. The dose I gave him was effective enough to facilitate sleep, though not long lasting.”
“I see – thank you again. Until tomorrow…”
She addressed the others, “Well, it appears Sean Walters has ceased to be even a possible suspect in his wife’s murder. Someone seems to have drugged him while he was out on the town, to make sure he stayed away while Cleo was attacked. I think we’ll have another, much closer, look at Richard Kelly in the very near future - and we’d better throw in Samuel Cross for good measure.”
As Rose drove herself and Liz to the Challoners’ Liz asked, “You don’t you use your prat-nav then, Guv? Can’t say I blame you - I think if people are too stupid to read a map, they shouldn’t be left in charge of a moving vehicle.”
She grinned, “My brother gave it to me several birthdays ago and I’ve never even switched it on. It spends most of it’s time in a dresser drawer, until every now and again I get a fit of conscience and let it ride along with me – one day I might actually get around to switching it on…”
“That’s a very generous present – it would have cost a fortune back then. I can’t imagine any of my sisters being that flash. What did you give him?”
She flushed, embarrassed, “If I remember correctly, it was a pair of Argyll socks.” Liz laughed and picked at one of the many exploding spots on her face. Rose resisted the urge to slap her hand away. “They were very nice Argyll socks…I must give him a ring later, see how he is – I’ve been thinking about him a lot today, being knee deep in twins.”
“Chris, isn’t it?”
“Yes, short for Christian. The man who has everything – a stunning, brainy wife, two great kids and a job he loves that pays him handsomely.”
Liz smirked, “If his wife ever decides to give him the elbow, feel free to toss him my number - I’d change my allegiance for the life of Riley.”
“Don’t hold your breath – they seem to be the ideal couple. Caroline – my sister-in-law – is so perfect she always makes me feel totally inadequate.” She negotiated a roundabout too fast, “When did you say Will Page will be back from Brighton? I want to interview him myself.”
“He thinks the day after tomorrow – he’s gone down there to tell his elderly parents face to face about Rory’s death, rather than do it over the phone.”
“I can appreciate that – I do hope the Press Office haven’t released the name yet.” Drumming the thick fingers of her right hand on the steering wheel, she asked, “Liz, have you considered trying for promotion yourself – since (as you so rightly pointed out) we are down a Detective Inspector?”
“Yes, Guv – I thought about it for two minutes then decided I’m not ready to take the plunge yet. I want to get a bit more experience under my thong.” Rose shook her head to evict the ridiculous image of Liz’s thong struggling to stretch around just one of her own thighs. “And I’m quite happy where I am, for now.”
“Even though you’re wary of making a link between the two murders?”
Liz grinned, “Even though. I just think there might be other explanations for the greasepaint stuff – and as for them being twins, well, there’s a lot of it about.”
That assurance made Rose feel marginally better, “Okay, we must all try to keep an open mind, but if you want to reconsider promotion, you’ll let me know?”
“I will, Guv, you’ll be my first port of call for a few hints on how to pass the exam without having to swot up on PACE for months on end.”
She laughed, “My pleasure, although I have to warn you that would be a case of the blind leading the blind.”
Rose flashed her warrant card when the heavy oak door was answered by a huge, upright man aged perhaps seventy to seventy-five, who had red rings around his eyes and deep dark circles under them. “Mr Challoner?”
He looked confused, as though emerging from a trance, “Yes, I’m Roger Challoner.”
“Good afternoon, Mr Challoner, my name is Chief Inspector Rose Huntingford – I am in charge of the investigation into your daughter’s murder. I’m very sorry for your loss, sir.” He didn’t appear to be absorbing what she said. She indicated Liz, to her left, “This is my colleague, Sergeant Brooks – may we come in?”
He said nothing, but swung the door wider and stood to one side. After he’d closed it again, he touched his forehead, dithered for a few seconds and said, “I’ll fetch my wife.” He shuffled off, down an ill-lit passageway.
Liz said quietly, “This is some hall, eh? I wouldn’t much fancy having to dust that carved staircase. Like the bloody Forth Bridge.”
Equally quietly, Rose answered, “When a hall is this posh, I believe it’s elevated to a vestibule – and if you can afford a place like this, you can afford the staff to keep it clean.”
A tiny, bird-fragile woman with big hair and a face pinched white appeared, “Good afternoon, officers – won’t you come through to the conservatory…I was just re-potting some seedlings. It helps to keep myself occupied.” Rose was surprised that the woman – whom she presumed to be Mrs Challoner – was so short and not at all what she’d expected. Evidently, the twins took after their father.
She asked, “Mrs Challoner?” The hair dipped in acknowledgement. Rose repeated the introductions and sympathy felt for her daughter’s death. “If it’s convenient, I’d like to have a word with Mr Walters – meanwhile, my sergeant would appreciate a moment of your time to gather some background information on Cleo; and perhaps your husband would join you, if he’s up to it?”
Mrs Challoner sighed deeply, which sapped much of her strength to leave her swaying. She clutched bony hands together to steady herself, “We shall have to be…I’ll call Sean.”
She took neat, small steps toward a Regency occasional table and picked up the phone to dial an extension. Rose and Liz exchanged bemused glances. Neither of them had taken her literally when she said she’d ‘call’ her son-in-law.
“Sean? Could you come down immediately, please – the police are here to formally question you about Cleo’s murder.”
Chapter Four
Sean Walters wore the wide-eyed expression of a scared young boy, who thought he was about to be walloped for amputating legs from spiders. So far, he hadn’t uttered a word.
In the drawing room they’d been allocated by Mrs Challoner, Rose motioned for him to sit – there were three giant brocade sofas to choose from and he perched, looking ill-at-ease, on the edge of the one placed nearest a wide bay window. A slight breeze blew in through the single door ajar behind him, puffing a lacy net curtain into the room at irregular intervals, to afford her snippet views of a pretty, well-tended garden. She sat to the end of another sofa a few feet away and pulled her jacket around her. Though the room was cold, verging on freezing, he didn’t seem to notice.
She introduced herself and then reassured him, “I am not here to formally question you, Mr Walters – your mother-in-law misunderstood me. I do, however, need to ask you what you can remember about last night.”
But it’s interesting that at least two Challoners appear to suspect your guilt.
Though he nodded, he seemed no more relaxed, “She’s in shock, I expect – we all are. It’s hard trying to keep everyfing together for the sake a the kids.”
Rose’s smile conveyed genuine sympathy, “Of course. Where are your daughters?”
“Mrs Fuller – that’s the housekeeper here – she’s taken ‘em to the park to feed the ducks. They got no idea what happened to Cleo…and I’m not looking forward to having to tell ‘em that a nasty man hurt Mummy and she won’t be coming back.”
“I can get you professional help when the time comes, if you’re interested?”
“Fanks, but no fanks – that’s me job…I’m their dad.”
“Just let me know if you change your mind; Family Liaison are trained to give support in all sorts of ways. Now, Mr Walters…”
He held up a hand to interrupt, “Please call me Sean, Rose.” He winked. “Do I need me brief?”
The inappropriate familiarity irked her, though she managed to conceal any telltale sign of that by running a hand over her mouth, “As I said, this is not a formal interview, Mr Walters; I’d like to hear your version of last night’s events as best you can recall them. However, should you prefer to have a solicitor present, you are quite within your rights to do so.”
His head shook, which seemed to cause him considerable pain - he grimaced and massaged his temples with his fingertips, “Not necessary, Rose. Naturally, I’m anxious for whoever did this dreadful fing to be caught as soon as possible – I just don’t know how much help I can be. I fink Gordie Roberts, our quack, got on the blower to tell you I was drugged to the eyeballs?”
“He did – it was very fortunate for you he was so alert.”
“Ovverwise I would have been chief suspect?”
“Mm…Did you meet Richard Kelly and Samuel Cross straight from work?”
“Ritchie picked me up and we met Sam at the Crown and Anchor – do you know it?”
“I’ve been there.”
“Sometimes they have great live music, but because the band was duff last night, we just had a couple a pints and left.”
“So you were there over what time span?”
“Err…near as I remember, I reckon we must have got there about seven-ish and left maybe forty, forty-five minutes later. We’d certainly scarpered by eight, the latest. I know one of the barmaids works there, Dotty – she might remember us being in.”
“We can check that – your next port of call?”
“Buster’s – it’s poncey wine bar, all modern art, if that’s what you can call it and rip-off prices.” His mouth formed a sneer, “Full a posers and tarts.”
“You display a lot of artwork in your home, Mr Walters – are you a connoisseur?”
Stranger things have happened.
“Nah, Cleo knew quite a lot about what’s hot and what’s not – she fought paintings was a sound investment. I’m not so sure meself.”
“I see. Did all three of you move on from Buster’s?”
“Yeah – Sam said he had to ‘op it home, but we persuaded him to have anovver couple a jars. Ritchie was pretty rowdy by then – sad git can’t hold his booze – and them bouncers at Subterranean Storey weren’t gonna let us in, ‘til I slipped ‘em a couple a ton. Everyone has their price.” He looked straight at her, searching her face and for a moment, she wondered if he was going to offer her a bribe – but why would he? He wasn’t even in the running, after Dr Roberts’ discovery. And she struggled to remember what a ton was in slang terms of money – did he really hand over two hundred pounds to the bouncers? She was definitely in the wrong job.
Ignoring his look she asked, “You arrived at the club about what time?”
“I’d say around nine-firty – it was still early and the place wasn’t exactly packed. Sammy didn’t stay long – poor, ‘enpecked bastard – his bitch deserves a proper slap.”
Charming.
“Can you remember how the evening progressed?”
“Nah, not really – a lot more drink, obviously…I’ve had vague flashbacks of sitting at a table, dancing a bit – Christ knows who wiv – and I was in the khazi… seemed like a long time, but it may not a bin. I fought the cubicle was shrinking in on me – must a bin the Mickey someone slipped me. Then I can remember standing at me front door, finking I’d forgotten me keys and knowing I was in for a bollocking, but then all of a sudden, I spotted ‘em hanging from the lock…must a really bin in a bad way to get that confused.”
Unless they were stolen by the killer, she thought. Let yourself in, do the deed and leave the keys in the door - someone who was hard-pressed to put one foot in front of the other would naturally assume he’d put them there and forgotten about them.
“Have you known Mr Kelly and Mr Cross long?”
“Ritchie, yeah – since we was nippers - but Sam Cross is a new acquaintance. I’ve only known him a few months, frough Ritchie a course.”
“And what is it you do exactly, Mr Walters?”
“Literally a bit a this, a bit a that – but essentially I’m a broker.”
She suspected ‘broker’ was a euphemism for ‘ducker and diver’, though she didn’t press him on that as she was about to tackle the emotive subject of discovering his wife’s body, “I’m sorry to have to ask you to revisit this…can you tell me what happened when you entered the house? Please take all the time you need.”
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