by Ali Carter
“Yes, that’s right, Roger Dern.” Andrew had continued calmly. More calmly than he’d felt. “Three years ago. He had an affair and Rachel threw him out.” Anticipating the next question he added; “I don’t know his whereabouts now.” Andrew watched as Longbridge continued to fill in his little black book. He carried on. “After that she… she had a lot of – boyfriends.”
“Really – and do you know any of these men, these… boyfriends? Did you meet any of them socially?”
“Actually – no, no I didn’t.” It was only then that for the first time Andrew had realised that nobody really knew any of the men Rachel had gone out with since being married to Roger. Well nobody at work anyway, nobody he knew. “The relationships never seemed to last very long,” he added. “I think a lot of them were doomed to fail… if you know what I mean?”
“No I don’t know what you mean Mister Gale – explain.” That bloody look again, why couldn’t he talk normally he remembered thinking. I know he has a job to do but I didn’t kill her and this guy would make Mother Theresa feel guilty.
“Well they were mostly already married or in long-term live-in relationships. Rach was always getting hurt, let down. Nobody ever thought it would end like this…”
“Nobody? And who is… are… nobody? Friends? Relatives? Neighbours?” Andrew had sighed then, something else the Inspector had noted down. Obviously he’d thought him ‘twitchy’ and impatient – he was.
“I was referring to people at work,” Andrew had explained. “Rachel often arrived in tears when a relationship had finished, we used to mop her up, make her coffee, listen – you know, be a friendly face?” It had been his turn to sound sarky then. It was ignored. At that moment he’d thought DCI Longbridge probably had very few friends. He’d imagined him sitting at home every night trying to solve the Jack the Ripper case or something similar. Anything that needed unravelling or sorting out effectively, something somebody else had failed to do, failed to wrap up and conclude to the Magpie’s standards. The young PC on the doorstep had spilt that little morsel; he certainly couldn’t imagine the Magpie having fun with friends. Hell he’d never even seen the guy smile yet, not even to shake his hand, but he’d noticed a wedding ring and Andrew had felt sorry for whoever she was. The Chief Inspector had spoken again then.
“So… in that case you think a jealous woman could be involved do you?” Making assumptions again Andrew had thought.
“I guess that’s possible. Anything’s possible, but as I said, I never knew who she was seeing. Anyway, she broke up with the latest one last week; as far as I know she hadn’t met anyone else.” Andrew hadn’t mentioned that Rachel had seemed a little happier over the previous few days, as if she had actually met somebody new. At the time he didn’t know why he’d kept that information back – he just had.
“Okay Mr Gale, that’ll do for now, thank you for your time.” The little black book had snapped shut indicating an abrupt end to their ‘chat’. “Perhaps you could make arrangements to call in at Kirkdale Police Station tomorrow morning sometime, make a full statement?” It’s on River Street – just in case you aren’t familiar with it.” Harry had stood up then, at which point Andrew had felt dismissed, like a naughty schoolboy – but there was something else too. It was as though Longbridge had decided he’d had enough of interviewing him, like there was some urgent event waiting. Andrew had left and assured he’d call in to River Street the following day, but he was also curious as to what it was he’d appeared so suddenly agitated about.
By the time Andrew had arrived at the pub and persuaded Molly to swap shifts, and Gina had returned from visiting her Gran in the nursing home, it was six o’clock before the three got a chance to talk together. Now they sat in the private lounge at the Carpenters Arms, doubles poured all round – all three in shock.
“It was just… awful,” said Andrew quietly – he looked over at Molly with renewed respect for her ‘abilities’. Sat next to him, Gina watched in surprise as he knocked back his brandy in one go and set the glass back on the coffee table. He picked up the bottle Ron Fields had left and poured himself another. Just as he was about to replace the bottle he changed his mind, topped it up a bit more and drank it down. He winced as it kicked the back of his throat. Gina noticed Molly’s surprise too.
“I’ve worked with Rachel for more than five years,” he continued, “I know she always got herself into disastrous relationships, often with married guys, but she didn’t deserve to die for it. I want to find out who did this. I know the police are doing their job but I can’t just sit around and do nothing.” Gina and Molly glanced at each other again, they both knew once Andrew had made his mind up the deal was done – neither of them would be able to change it.
“Don’t think you can go into this alone,” Molly reasoned, “the last thing Rachel would want is for something to happen to you too – and what about Gina?” Her friend drank deeply of her second double Scotch and coke – it didn’t help her pallor. Molly persisted; “Just exactly how do you propose to start and where?” You’re a reporter of events not a policeman who investigates them, and they aren’t going to thank you for nosing around.” Reminded of Harry Longbridge’s interviewing techniques, Andrew snorted and drank some more, he knew that officer would definitely not want him anywhere near. Andrew decided not to go into his opinions of the local constabulary, or a detailed description of his ‘interview’. The girls eyed each other again and waited for him to speak.
“Rachel had seemed… I dunno… lifted somehow, brighter at work over the last couple of days. I think she’d met somebody else since her recent break-up. I know he smokes for a start because she didn’t, not anymore anyway. I know she occasionally used a bit of weed when she was really down, but she gave up regular cigarettes a couple of years back.” He paused. “There was a stub in an ashtray beside the bed.”
“Oh great!” exclaimed Gina, exasperated by her boyfriend’s apparent simplistic summary of the evidence. “That would narrow it down then!” She folded her arms and threw herself back against the cushions in frustration. Andrew turned to her…
“Gee I have to do this.” Their eyes held each other’s in a desperate mix of love, concern, determination – and the unknown. Molly stumbled a little over her next comment and broke the uncomfortable silence in a quiet and resigned voice.
“I… I had another dream.”
“Yes we know,” said Gina, “I told Andy that’s why he rang you pretty much straightaway after… after he found –”
“No Gee – no, not that one… not the vision, I had another dream, on Friday after the country show. You know I told you I met that guy Jason, and never got around to meeting you two by the forestry demo? Andrew and Gina nodded in unison. “Well that night I dreamt I was suffocating, had some kind of… cloth or something held over my face. There was this smell – heavy, sweet – and then I passed out. I woke up about two a.m. feeling cold, very cold. I even felt kind of… ‘heady’.”
Andrew turned grey, looked like Molly really did have some kind of psychic thing going on – not just a one off then.
“She was chloroformed first.” He started uneasily, “before… before she was stabbed with – ” Andrew hesitated as Gina’s bottom lip began to quiver, “with – something,” he finished cautiously. Their horrified expressions left him uncertain whether he should be too exact or even go on at all. He decided to tailor it. “Even the police don’t know what it could be yet.” His eyes glazed slightly as he lowered them toward his hands and ran a finger up the side of his brandy glass. Gina enclosed her fingers around them as Andrew went on. “The wound to her chest was… not small, and completely the wrong shape for a knife or a bullet. I’ve been racking my brains all afternoon trying to work out what it could be. Just keep on seeing her lying there, covered in blood and that… sweet, thick scent of anaesthetic filling the room, in my nose – my mouth.” He screwed up his face and grimaced… “I
can still taste it…”
Unbeknown to Andrew, Harry Longbridge did have something else waiting on his attention just before Andrew had left. When Harry’s stomach growled and his caffeine withdrawal kicked in, his brain ground to a complete halt. It had been the same way for years, his glucose levels were shit. A round of sausage on white and a much-needed cup of caffeine had been waiting fifteen minutes in the kitchen whilst he’d questioned Andrew – he’d hung on as long as he could. It was semi-warm polystyrene coffee, but it was coffee. As the well sugared liquid had slid down his throat and the comfort food hit the right spot, he could feel the sharpness return and spread through his system.
‘You know something else Mister Gale,’ he’d thought, eyes narrowed as he drained the cup – ‘I don’t know what or who yet – but I will.’
SEVEN
The plate sailed past the oak cupboard doors, drifted to the ground in slow motion and crashed spectacularly onto the ceramic tiled floor to shatter beyond repair. As his white knuckles gripped the edge of the work surface the blood drained from Miles’ face, in those first few moments his sunbed tan was unable to deliver its usual golden hue. Rachel… dead? How? Why? He continued to hold the worktop for support as he stared through the window across the courtyard to the horses in the paddock and beyond – but he didn’t see any of it. He didn’t see the stables or the ménage, the Willows or the Oaks. He didn’t see the hedgerows or the numerous rabbits that had taken over their land. He didn’t see anything except the imprint of those deathly dark images the news item had concocted, delivered – then so selfishly left behind.
He was thankful at least that Charlotte was still upstairs when he’d heard the gut-wrenching instalment of his latest short-lived fling, but she soon came running down when the sound of smashed china echoed through the hallway. She rounded the door into the kitchen and gasped as she recognised the tiny delicate blue flower on a piece of their best dinner service.
“Oh Miles how could you!!” That’s the fourth plate you’ve broken! For Christ’s sake my parents bought us that collection for a wedding present and it’s not cheap! She began to pick up the larger of the jagged sections and pushed him aside from the sink cupboard door to find the dustpan and brush. He didn’t hear her as she ranted on about not looking after their things, how he always managed to break something important, something that was important to her. He didn’t hear as she carried on sweeping and accusing, brushing and shouting, until all the shattered pieces were in the pan and then finally dumped unceremoniously into the bin. The radio news slot had already finished as she’d first surveyed the damage, now an old Stones number rocked the airwaves as it stomped noisily around their ‘quiet’ country kitchen.
“Why do you always have to use that set anyway?” she yelled above Jagger’s scraping vocals. “I’ll tell you why Miles because you always want the best of everything, all of the time, that’s why!” He was still staring out of the window.
“Miles are you listening to me?” She walked over to the window stood right behind him, pulled him around by the shoulder and pointed accusingly towards the open bin.
“W – what?” He looked at Charlotte’s irritated expression, at the bin and back to her face again, then realised why he’d been able to hear her voice in the distance somewhere, but hadn’t registered it.
“Oh… God – I’m so sorry!” He held his head in his hands, ashen-faced when he saw what he’d done. “It just… slipped, must’ve been wet, I’ll replace it, buy another!” He tried to placate her; he knew she was right, she was always right… Miles reached for an everyday plate from the rack and fervently hoped she hadn’t noticed the real reason for his absent-mindedness, then shoved some bread in the slots and pushed the toaster lever down. Charlotte snorted – an irritated moan escaped as she threw both hands in the air, pulled cereal boxes from the cupboard and milk from the fridge. She began to set the farmhouse table for breakfast completely oblivious to the fact her husband had just unwittingly learned he was living with a murderess…
The doors to the surgery swung open with an unusually heavy force when Dr. Peterson barged through and marched into reception. His face was stern as he swept past the admissions desk, walked quickly down the corridor and turned left to his consulting room. Gina’s mouth dropped open in surprise as did several of her colleagues, but not for the same reason as the young redhead. She couldn’t remember the last time she hadn’t reluctantly flushed hot with embarrassment because of Miles winking at her or flashing one of his appreciative morning smiles. As he flew past the wall of the nurses clinic his elbow caught the edge of a painting and sent it askew, he ignored it and carried on. Without exception and regardless of age, every woman within view of that reception area watched in a mixture of lustful amazement as the tails of his navy pinstripe jacket disappeared around the corner.
Inside his office the seriousness of his predicament began to sink in. The news report had mentioned that the pathologist had placed Rachel’s time of death as sometime on Friday afternoon. Whoever killed her must have arrived soon after he’d left which meant he had to have been the last person to see her alive prior to the murderer. He fished a half empty packet of Consulate and Zippo out of his pocket and a glass ashtray from the back of a drawer in his desk. Smoking was expressly forbidden anywhere inside the building, but at that moment his nerves weren’t interested in rules. He leant worriedly against the desk and lit the cigarette. As he drew heavily on its pure white menthol he began to think straight for the first time since he turned on the radio that morning. There were no details of him with any police station in the UK, he’d never been in trouble with the law, and no DNA had been collected anywhere to his knowledge. And he was innocent for Christ’s sake! No. There was no need to panic. He was the local GP and a respected pillar of the community. Well – maybe the pillar part was a bit of a stretch but he hadn’t done anything wrong, therefore there was no reason to be concerned. He wasn’t even her doctor. If he kept his head down, carried on with his work and let the police get on with theirs, everything would be fine. One thing he certainly wouldn’t be doing was walking into the local station with even a scrap of information about his relationship with Rachel. If Charlotte found out what he’d been doing whilst she’d been at the country show there would be hell to pay. More than that… He flicked the ash off the end of his cigarette, took a last couple of drags and after spraying the room with a mini air freshener, double bent the butt into the glass tray. He felt a lot better – things never looked so bleak when you analysed them properly.
Charlotte had the day off. She pointed the remote at the lounge TV and sat back. It was no surprise to her to see the local news carried a slot on Rachel’s murder or that the police hadn’t a clue about the weapon used. She snapped a ginger biscuit in two with her teeth and chewed one half slowly; the other she drowned in her coffee a couple of times and put that in her mouth too. She calmly brushed some crumbs off her lap, popped a couple of pills and relaxed into her black leather recliner with a smile. As she listened, her eyes were drawn to an area above her oak mantelpiece. An area that displayed an ancient Chinese replica bought on a long-ago trip to Hong Kong, a trip, place and time when she’d been happy. She was lost for a few moments in that memory, the voice of the news reporter faded into the distance, her eyes briefly glistened at blurred mental images…
Suddenly cymbals and trombones crashed loudly in her living room as a brass band appeared on screen. She blinked away the past, extended her arm and changed channels.
Across town the Courier was a hive of activity, everyone was in deep shock over Rachel’s murder. The police had been in to take statements from all of the Courier’s employees regarding their own relationships with her, and any knowledge they’d had of her home and social life. Only Andrew had needed to report to the station to give a written statement as he was the one who’d found her.
Stella sat utterly mortified with Peter in his office. Although
she’d always appeared exasperated by Rachel’s lifestyle and behaviour patterns, deep down she’d really been very fond of her. She’d known Rachel since she was born, in fact Stella had seen Rachel being born, helped her friend Pam through the labour and the first few years that followed till she got on her feet. Rachel’s father had disappeared pretty much after the conception and hadn’t been seen since, so the nearest she’d ever got to a father was Peter. Despite not getting involved with Rachel’s personal life, Peter Gray was nevertheless in an equal state of shock to Stella. The young woman had been the daughter of a close friend who’d died ten years ago, and his wife had promised she would always keep a caring eye on her. Now Stella felt she’d let Pam Delaney down – and Peter knew this was a story his wife would not leave to anyone else – including the police.
Andrew arrived back at the Courier from Riverside just as their officers from the murder squad were leaving. He still didn’t know how or what he was going to do to discover the truth behind Rachel’s death, including who’d killed her, but he thought maybe a really well written report in the Courier might help. Somebody must know something somewhere. He just needed to find them. He also knew he had to convince Stella to let him work on this story with her, let one of the ‘bods’ upstairs cover his sport reports for a couple of weeks. It was the first time a murder had occurred in the village for a very long time, certainly the first since he’d been working at the paper. Stella would be all over it, dominate and devour it, particularly considering her personal involvement. But Andrew wanted in too. Two days later they ran the story between them, Stella Gray had just broken the habit of a lifetime and Andrew was not going to disappoint her.
On the Thursday, three days after discovering Rachel’s murder, and publishing day for the Courier, the front cover hit Kirkdale like a gigantic tidal wave. A newly discovered volcano in the middle of town would have been less of a shock. Their village just did not have murders, a few burglaries, the odd pub brawl, even a suicide once, but not murders. Andrew sat at his desk and read Stella’s final draft once more, this time in their paper published that morning. Before he realised it, a quiet mousey haired young woman in a green wax jacket and matching Hunter boots stood in front of him. He noticed the brown footprints that led from the front door all the way down the office to his desk, getting lighter and lighter as the carpet sucked up the wet rainwater from the owner’s rubber souls.