by Ali Carter
The change of clothes hadn’t been easy. With the car parked in the quietest part of Clovelly Woods, Charlotte had flicked the switch to slide the electric hood shut and struggled to strip off in the cramped two-seater. At any other time it might have seemed erotic, fun even to be stark naked in the open air, no doubt Miles had experienced it many times over the years, she thought acidly. On this occasion, however, she couldn’t get re-dressed fast enough – however, Houdini she definitely wasn’t. Once changed, her blood-soaked clothes were stuffed into the black bin liner that had held the fresh set, and then hidden under a blanket in the boot. They could be burnt when she got home. The next ten minutes was spent breathing very slowly, very calmly – in… and out… in… . and out – until she was quite – quite relaxed… almost serene.
The tyres scrunched on the courtyard gravel at Willows Copse. Charlotte pulled up alongside Miles’ Roadster and turned off the engine. She sat motionless for a moment, heart still racing a little – then a flash bulb moment made her glance down to examine her hands. Had she cleaned them well enough, got all that……muck out from under her nails? She didn’t even want to think the word ‘blood’ and her a doctor! Even with the gloves the red…stain had soaked through. Damn – should have used surgical ones. Well…next time then.
‘Step out of the car in an ordinary fashion’ she instructed herself with silent lips. ‘Be ready for any questions about the show, and above all……act normally’. Charlotte surprised herself. Maybe she should’ve been an actress instead of a GP. She giggled as she let herself into the house, one hand over her mouth to try and stifle the rising hysteria…
The rest of the weekend had passed without any unusual events. Miles had even played landowner and took the sit and ride mower over the paddocks; he usually employed someone to do that. As the seconds slipped into minutes and the minutes into hours, her prolonged calm manner continued to amaze her. It was so realistic, it was almost scary. Not even pills could have achieved that sort of result. Still, she had come to see Miles in a different light now and it had made everything so much clearer, cleaner – simpler. No longer was he the erring husband she’d decided; no, from the day of the show he’d become something very different as far as Charlotte was concerned. As of four fifteen that Friday afternoon, Miles had become… dispensable. Yes… that was the word. If she cut her feelings dead it would make life a lot easier, more practical – tidier. No point in getting all jealous and upset over these silly girls, just make everything – everyone, inessential, superfluous, like life’s hardware – completely disposable.
Monday morning dawned bright and sunny.
Like everyone else, Andrew had paid little attention when Rachel didn’t turn up for work. It was such a normal occurrence for her to walk in at five to ten, that when everyone else had arrived, made coffee, sorted mail and got on with their respective day, there was nothing out of the ordinary for anyone to be aware of.
As the morning turned into lunchtime however, Andrew had found himself looking out of the window to the high street, Rachel’s car still being in dock, he’d kept watch on the bus stop. His screen had precious little more in the way of work displayed on it than it had at eleven thirty, but he just couldn’t concentrate – particularly after he’d got no reply from either of Rachel’s phones.
Something Gina had said about Molly’s latest daft dream, or vision, or whatever it was, did actually pop into his head, just for a split second, but he’d immediately chucked it out again.
The clock on the Courier wall said ten past two. Andrew dropped a pen down on to the desk and bounced it back through his fingers. He repeated it again and again, glanced up at the clock for the umpteenth time, but it was only ever a couple of minutes later than his previous check.
Jenny had gone across town with Stella at noon to interview the owner of a new restaurant that’d just opened up, and Peter was busy with whatever he found to do in his office. Rachel, however, had still not turned up and hadn’t rung in either. Although she was notoriously late every day, she always rang in if she wasn’t coming, and she was never later than eleven.
Andrew tried her again, but there was still no answer from the landline and her mobile was turned off. He considered how upset she’d been the previous week over her latest romantic disaster. Surely she wouldn’t have done anything stupid? Would she? Andrew threw the pen across the desk, really anxious now. He bit his bottom lip as his eyes got pulled back up to the clock. There had never been anything between them and it wasn’t as if he was responsible for her, she was a grown woman for God’s sake. But they had worked together for over five years, and there was just something about Rachel, something that’d always made him feel, well……he just wanted to look out for her.
Two thirty. He released an audibly impatient sigh and ran agitated fingers through his hair. At the other end of the office Peter’s head was still bent over his work. He hadn’t seemed particularly worried about his employee’s absence, but then he knew very little about any of his staff’s personal life, and he’d always left Rachel to Stella. Andrew on the other hand had been at the receiving end of Rachel’s despair since her ex-husband Roger’s adultery three years before. In fact, he’d been the one that supplied the kitchen roll, coffee and a sympathetic ear at the end of every relationship she’d indulged in, and lost, ever since.
Andrew leant forward, and with both hands on his desk pushed the chair sharply away and got up. He swept his jacket off the back, strode down the office and marched straight out of the door to the car park. Peter Gray barely managed to look up from his desk.
It was sheer luck Andrew didn’t attract the police with the speed he ramped up on the way to Rachel’s. Once out of the Courier’s side road his foot floored the accelerator. He hung a left at Turners Garage along the high street, straight through a red – over to the middle of the road then threw a right into Grangers Crescent. Even his old Ford could turn up trumps when his back was against the wall! Down to the end of Grangers – where he narrowly missed a car backing out of its drive – and round into Darcy Avenue. Every corner was cut, every red light was run and his gearbox didn’t sound too healthy either. The usual fifteen-minute journey took no longer than nine as he screeched to a halt outside Rachel’s house.There was a long path up to the front door, a door which looked kind of distorted from the gate. Surely his eyesight wasn’t going he thought as he ran past rose bushes, pansies and a whole row of geraniums – all of which persisted in growing despite Rachel’s aversion to gardening. Her dislike of anything that involved getting close to the green and earthy was something he’d always teased her about.
Once Andrew reached the door he realised why it had appeared ‘off set’. He pushed at the snib with his thumb but it wouldn’t retract until he released it. The door had been unlocked and was resting on the latch then – but for how long? And more to the point – why?
“Rachel?” He called out tentatively from the threshold then listened for a reply as he stepped into the hall. There was a scrunch beneath his feet. He looked down to see a smashed lamp and swallowed the lump in his throat as he stepped gingerly over the glass. He felt awkward walking uninvited into a woman’s house however well intentioned, particularly as she hadn’t answered him, and there was broken glass all over the hall floor…
“Rachel love, are you in? It’s Andy.” Nothing. He took a few steps towards the kitchen and wondered if he should try and find something to protect himself with. Gently his foot nudged at the half-open door. It creaked slightly. The room was empty. He picked up a carving knife from the counter and gripped it tightly as he stepped back into the hall.
“Rachy are you there hun?” Nothing. He pushed at a door nearest the kitchen. “We were worried at work but nobody’s mad at you, not even Stella.” Still no answer. It was the dining room and a quick glance through its patio doors to the back garden told him she wasn’t outside either.
When Andrew had checked
the lounge he returned to the hall and negotiated the area around the bottom of the stairs to avoid the broken lamp. He held the knife out in front of him and began to climb. Maybe she’d just had a severe migraine, knocked the lamp over and went to bed to sleep it off, he thought. Or maybe a chronic stomach bug? Still, it didn’t explain the front door – and what in God’s name is that bloody smell? A heavy sweet odour hung in the air. He’d noticed it immediately he entered the house, but as he mounted the stairs it grew stronger. When Andrew had reached the top he felt quite nauseated; the smell was overwhelming, it clung to the carpet, the curtains, his clothes, everything. Shit! Could it be some kind of gas leak? He stood quietly and listened, but couldn’t hear anything. It was then that he realised he’d stopped calling Rachel’s name.
There were four white doors set around a single galleried landing and all were closed except the one to his right, the one opposite a streaked lead paned window. It had begun raining again. Andrew turned at the top of the stairs and walked along the landing towards the door that was ajar. He lifted his arm to push it open, afraid now of what he might find. His hand hovered in mid-air for a second; then he allowed the knifepoint to connect with the door until it moved inwards – and walked hesitantly into the room.
“Rachy…are you…?” No more words were needed. After he dropped the knife and introduced his breakfast to the bedroom floor, he staggered backwards onto the landing, grabbed the stair rail and collapsed. In two short steps, Andrew Gale’s world had gone from caring colleague and smalltown reporter, to reluctant psychic believer and amateur sleuth.
Dazed and trembling, he fumbled blindly in his pocket for his mobile and rang the police. Afterwards he punched in the private family number of the Carpenters Arms… and asked for Molly Fields.
SIX
At forty-nine, Harry Longbridge had been a DCI for ten years and an experienced cop for over twenty. He hadn’t always lived in a country town, the move to Kirkdale was his wife’s idea, but even including his Met days, he’d never seen a murder scene quite as grotesque as the one in front of him. When a couple of the more seasoned Scenes of Crime Officers had embarrassingly made use of the victim’s en suite, he wasn’t exactly surprised. The young guy who’d found the woman had missed it, judging by his ‘eau de vomit’ cologne and damp shirt sleeves during his interview. Harry’s stomach was made of sterner stuff, however, years of his wife’s culinary non-delights and readily available fast food outlets had seen to that.
He wandered slowly around Rachel’s bedroom, fast sharp eyes flashed into every corner, every surface and every drawer. He was known as The Magpie in the squad for rarely missing a trick. Nobody could have missed the knife, but it had already been ruled out as an attack or murder weapon. There was ash on the floor and a cigarette stub bent over in an ashtray on a bedside table next to it. The victim still had the remains of bright pink lipstick on her mouth, the butt did not. The thing that most puzzled him about this murder scene though wasn’t the fact there was no lipstick on the stub, or even that the weapon was missing, that was often the case, no, the thing that puzzled him most was that Longbridge had absolutely no idea what could have been used to kill Rachel Dern. The gaping hole in her chest was huge, he knew of no gun that could have caused that without making a lot more mess. Anyway, that would have been like using a sledgehammer to crack a nut. The direction of the blood spray didn’t correlate with any type of bullet entering and leaving the body, and SOCO had been all over the room – there was no bullet. Neither was there any wood or glass splinters in the wound, just a gaping hole to the left-hand side – straight through the heart. Whatever had been used to make that hole had been held by someone who wanted to make a statement. They’d already used chloroform as their first weapon of choice, presumably to make the job easier. That sickly sweet smell was everywhere; God knows how much they’d used. The chest wound had almost certainly been unnecessary to affect death; the amount of anaesthetic alone would’ve been enough to affect death. That, thought Longbridge, as he turned to leave the room, was exactly why a statement was being made by the killer. One he intended to get down officially.
“Walker!! Get yourself up here!!” yelled Harry over the banister to the young PC on sentry duty at the front door. “My belly thinks my throat’s been cut, and my mouth’s like a gorilla’s pit. Get down the baker’s and sort a pile of sausage sarnies and coffee, all round.”
“But – sir,” he called as he ran halfway up the stairs from the hall. “What about the front –?”
“Don’t you worry about playing garden statues for the day son, I need a grub runner. Just get down that shop; and don’t hang about!” One thing that definitely wasn’t going to get overlooked was Harry’s lunch, even if it was twenty to four. Rookie Joe Walker realised that yet again, he was going to get stung for the take-out…
On the drive to the Carpenters Arms, Andrew went over the shock of the last few hours in his head. He wasn’t just remembering it, he was analysing it. Why was the door on the latch? Did Rachel leave it like that deliberately? Did that mean she knew her killer then? Who was he and why murder her? What possible reason could there have been? He could have barely known her! Unless it was the guy she’d split up with. Was that a possibility? Had she thought they were getting back together again? Was that why the door was unlocked, so he could let himself in?
The questions just kept coming and demanded answers that Andrew simply didn’t have. Not yet anyway. The sight of his friend lying on the floor at the side of the obviously well-used bed, her body prostrate, the copious quantities of blood, that… that grotesque hole in her chest – all of it played repeatedly, movie sized in his head. Somehow he had to find out why – how – and most importantly – who?
The chloroform, so heavy in the air, had attached itself to the fibres of his clothes, mixed with the vomit and walked out of the house to climb into the car with him, as this time he drove at a normal speed across town to meet the girls.
That DCI was something else. Boy had he been watching too many American cop dramas, thought Andrew as he wrinkled his nose at a sniff of his sleeve. His full statement was due to be taken at the local station the following morning, but as he drove to the pub he recalled the initial brief interview with Harry Longbridge following his 999 call in Rachel’s lounge…
“Ah… Mister… er…” – Longbridge had consulted his notebook – “Gale. Mister Gale, I understand you were the gentleman who reported finding Miss Dern in this most… unfortunate way.”
“If you mean did I find her dead, then yes I am!” Andrew had shot back; angry at the description of how he’d just found his long-time colleague and friend. He hadn’t liked the officer’s phrasing one bit. It wasn’t bloody unfortunate, it was tragic! Terrible! Horrific! Devastating! Any number of alternative adjectives, but it definitely was not bloody unfortunate!
Longbridge had just waited patiently, staring at him. Andrew had continued on. “She didn’t turn up for work so I came over to check she was okay.”
“Bit of an over-reaction wasn’t it Mister Gale, just because she hadn’t arrived for work at the usual time you decided to check up on her? Do that often do you if she’s late? What time was this exactly?”
This was going to be one sarcastic bastard, Andrew could feel it. “About two forty p.m. Rachel was always late, it was a thing with her everyone kind of accepts…accepted it. Her mother had been a longstanding friend of the Courier’s owners,” but that wasn’t the point. He had already explained why. “She was never later than eleven a.m. and she always rang in if she wasn’t well or couldn’t make it for some reason. She didn’t call.”
Andrew remembered how Longbridge had scrutinised every word that had come out of his mouth. It had felt like he was suspicious of anybody who had vaguely known Rachel, mainly if they were still breathing.
“Even so it seems a little… shall we say full on for want of a better expression,” Longbridge had rep
lied, and eyed him full on then. “Were you having a relationship with this young woman Mister Gale? Or if not recently, have you at any other time?” Andrew had felt distinctly uncomfortable about this line of questioning. He’d never actually been out on a date with Rachel, but he’d always been very fond of her, and for some ridiculous reason felt he should keep an eye on her. Look out for her. He’d even done a couple of odd jobs around the house, but then so had his boss, Peter Gray. How would all that sound to Columbo here though?
“No, Rachel… Miss Dern… and I had never had anything other than a friendly working relationship – at any time,” he added pointedly. The policeman had carried on looking at him steadily for what seemed an age. Eyes level with his own he’d remained very quiet in the opposite chair and waited for Andrew to add something extra. He didn’t. It had felt as if he hadn’t quite believed him. He could imagine exactly what Longbridge had been thinking at that moment. They were of a similar age these two, worked together for quite a while. This young woman had been very attractive until some sadistic bastard had put a crater in her chest. Finally he’d dropped his eyes back down to his notebook before suddenly flicking them back up as if something had occurred to him. He’d begun again…
“Do you know if the deceased had been seeing anyone else recently? I understand that she was single, a divorcee I believe?” Andrew held his gaze. What did he mean by ‘else’ he’d thought; ‘else’ implied he was suggesting she’d been seeing him at some point – didn’t it? And he hadn’t for God’s sake – he’d just told Longbridge that.