by Linda Coles
“I’ll be back shortly,” he told her. “Stay put.”
Jack knocked on Dupin’s door and walked straight in without being invited. He didn't wait for Dupin to ask him what he wanted this time; he ran straight with it.
“I guess Doug has told you already that Gordon Simpson's daughter is here to talk to you. Says she's got something to discuss, some evidence?”
“Apparently so. I'm on the way to talk to her now, so we’ll see what this evidence she says she has is. Though the CPS have charged Mr Simpson, so she may be grasping at straws. She’ll probably tell me it was her, trying to save her old man. It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened.”
“You are going to hear her out, though, aren’t you? Take her seriously?”
“I’ll see what she says. Yes.”
Dupin stood, gathered up his notepad and checked his breast pocket for a pen before marching out in the direction of the interview room where the desk sergeant had deposited Gordon's daughter. When Dupin walked in, Ruth met his gaze and watched as he sat down opposite her. A striking woman on any other day, but her swollen eyes and blotchy face told him of her despair and upset.
“I'm DI Lawrence Dupin, and you’re Ruth McGregor, is that correct?”
“It's Ruth McGregor-Lacey, actually, but yes, Ruth. I'm Gordon Simpson's daughter.”
“I’ve been told that you have something I need to hear.”
“I do,” she said, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. Her hands shook with nerves as she rubbed them together in front of her. Her voice sounded like she was talking across a vibrating telephone line; the tension made her words hard going.
“This isn't going to be easy for me,” she began, “because of the upset it's going to cause when it comes out.” She paused to catch her breath and carried on. “But I can't let my father take the rap for something he didn’t do. It wasn't him; he is not responsible for the death of the landscaper, or his body being in the garden back at the old house.”
“I see,” said Dupin, not convinced but happy to dig further. “So why don't you tell me what you know from the beginning, and let me be the judge of that.” He wore a slight smirk on his face; he’d seen family members lie before to get others out of trouble. How convincing could this woman be, he wondered?
“Can I ask you a question first?” Ruth said. She was gaining control a little more, her voice strengthening as she forced herself to be the tough, direct woman she normally was.
“Go ahead,” said Dupin.
“If you knew that a murder had taken place, but you'd no idea where the body was or any actual evidence that a certain person had killed someone in the first place, is it an offence not to report it?”
“There could be charges, yes.”
“But if I could tell you about the deaths of two people, do you think that would negate any charge of knowing about the body you found? In other words, if what I tell you would help you clear up another case, help your resolved case figures, would that mean the other charge might be dropped? Hypothetically, of course,” Ruth added hurriedly.
“It might be considered. It depends on the information that you have. By the way, have you spoken to a lawyer yet? Hypothetical questions are not much protection.”
“I haven't, no, and perhaps I should, but I've got to get this out either way, so a solicitor is immaterial. This is at great personal expense to me, you understand. Dad had nothing whatsoever to do with the body being in the garden, and whether a solicitor advises me to say anything or not, I've got to help Dad. Tell the truth of what really happened.”
“Then why don't you tell me what's on your mind, Ruth?”
“Can I have your word you’ll take my information into account if you charge me?”
“Yes, you have my word. Now, why don’t you fill me in?”
With another deep intake of breath, Ruth began to tell the story of how she had come to know about the deaths of at least two people and the poisoning of another.
“I remember that summer well, because Madeline Simpson, my stepmother—had an accident. She had a collision with a truck and ended up breaking her arm and spent some time in hospital. When she came out and was recuperating, we were sat having a drink out on the patio. Some strange things had been going on around that time; there just seemed to be too many coincidences. Anyway, I put two and two together, because I always enjoy puzzles, and confronted Madeline to see what she’d say.”
“Like what? What are we talking about here?” said Dupin, leaning forward.
“There was a local man in the news who had terrible food poisoning; he used to go into the café where Madeline worked. And then somebody else died in hospital after a car accident. The accident had been on the road where there was a garden centre that Madeline used to visit. And then there was the death of a man called James Peterson. He was from her book club, I think.”
She paused again to gather her thoughts and to give the detective opportunity to ask questions about anything she’d said so far. He kept quiet.
“I know who killed him. Accidentally. And I'm not just making this up to get Dad off, either, because if you take a close look at the toxicology report from James Peterson’s autopsy, you’ll find Viagra in his system and smoked mackerel pâté in his stomach. The drug was administered via the food as a prank by my stepmother, Madeline Simpson. A prank that went terribly wrong. She didn’t know about his heart condition, or I doubt she’d have done it.”
Dupin was now scribbling furiously on his pad, making notes so that he could double-check what Ruth was saying. There was no way that Ruth McGregor-Lacey or whatever she was called could know about stomach contents and tox results unless she’d either had some involvement or knew somebody who’d had some involvement in those cases. It would be an easy one to check. She lived with a detective from the case, after all.
“And how does all of this help your father, Ruth?”
“Because it was Madeline Simpson who buried the landscaper in the garden. She killed him and buried him single-handedly, all on her own. Actually, with the help of a digger. She wasn’t strong enough to do it alone, obviously; the digger was useful and convenient.”
“And you expect me to believe that she could, indeed, do all that on her own? How did she kill him, exactly?”
“She whacked him with a shovel, I believe. She told me the whole sordid story of what she’d been up to, how menopause was a constant raging fight inside her and she’d decided on retribution one day. It was the landscaper that she killed first. She didn’t mean to hurt anyone. These were all supposed to be simple pranks to teach each of them a lesson for annoying her so much.” She took another breath and ploughed on. “That afternoon while we sat on the patio, she told me about all of them, but she wouldn’t tell me what had happened to the landscaper’s body. She said it was her way of keeping me out of any trouble: if I didn’t know, I couldn’t tell. No one else knows her secret, and I'm only telling you today to help my father.” Tears started to fall afresh down her already swollen face. “And this is probably going to be the end of my relationship with Amanda. The fact that I've known this all along… Her trust in me is going to be smashed to smithereens now. Amanda has no clue, no involvement in all this. She didn’t know my stepmother.” Ruth pulled a clump of tissues out of her sleeve and blew her nose loudly.
“How did she do it, then? How did she bury the body?”
“Well, I could never say for sure where she buried it, and it was actually our old cat Dexter that showed me.”
“I'm sorry?” asked Dupin incredulously.
“I know it sounds stupid. It was the morning of Madeline's funeral and Dexter was digging a hole to do his business on the dirt pile where the digger still stood. Then at the last minute, he changed his mind and decided to dig another hole at the side of it. That covered the original hole up, and then he squatted down and did his business there. And watching him, that’s how I knew it was exactly what Madeline had done. That digger had sat the
re for a week on top of a pile of dirt. People came and went, investigating Des Taylor’s disappearance, and all they could see was an empty hole, a rather crude empty hole, if you looked at it closely enough. Not one that an experienced landscaper would necessarily have dug, but it was certainly one that a middle-aged woman with no prior knowledge of operating a digger could have hastily dug after she’d already buried a body in the original hole. A hole the landscaper had originally dug. That digger stood on top of the grave for ages with the fresh hole to the side. The whole thing was very smart, wouldn't you agree?”
Dupin sat back in his chair, not quite sure if he believed what she was saying, but it fitted perfectly. It was too far-fetched to have been made up. He scrutinised her face, her pleading eyes, her strained body language—she looked like she was telling the truth. He’d interviewed enough people in his time and knew when someone was lying or not. Her body language and anguish were genuine. The story, though far-fetched, was certainly plausible.
“I'm going to leave for five minutes; I need to check on something. Please, stay where you are.”
Dupin hurried out of the interview room and headed towards the squad room. He needed a computer.
In the tiny viewing room, Jack stood open-mouthed. Ruth’s story was indeed plausible, and it would fill in an awful lot of missing pieces. But her revelation was going to wreak holy havoc on her life with Amanda—and here at work. Amanda and Jack had investigated that disappearance together, and now it turned out that Ruth had known the details since Madeline had died.
He hoped Ruth and Amanda were strong enough to weather the tsunami that was surging their way, because they were going to need more than a tough umbrella to withstand this one.
Not a religious man, Jack crossed his chest silently anyway.
Chapter Seventy-One
Amanda paced impatiently up and down the squad room, wondering what was going on, what Ruth was here to talk to Dupin about. She hoped she wasn't going to get herself into trouble, perhaps even make something up just to save her father, though that would be unlike Ruth in the first place. But Amanda knew Ruth was extremely close to her father now; she’d only reconnected with him in her late teens and they’d since become close. She could only hope that whatever it was she was telling Dupin, it was of dire importance. Ruth wasn't soft or stupid enough to think that she could come and plead with Dupin for her father's release; she knew it didn't work like that. So, what on earth could she be saying to him?
As she paced the squad room, wearing the carpet out, she saw Dupin surging past the doorway on his way down to his office. He looked in a rush, and since he was obviously out of discussions with Ruth, she figured she could follow, ask him what was going on. The worst that could happen was he’d tell her to mind her own business. She was almost at his door when he came blustering back out and collided with her in the corridor.
“Not now, Lacey,” he shouted, and hurried passed her mumbling an apology as he went.
“What the hell was that?” said Amanda to herself, and attempted to pace after him. But Dupin was ahead of her and obviously on a mission. He shouted for Raj as he approached the squad room door, then slipped inside. Amanda followed and saw that the two men were already deep in conversation, and it looked secretive. Dupin obviously didn't want the rest of the team to hear whatever they were talking about. Raj was nodding up and down, his head bobbing like a doll’s with a spring in its neck.
Dupin then flew back out of the room towards the interview room, and Ruth.
She approached Raj’s desk, but got a similar brush-off from him, which was unlike Raj.
“Not now, Amanda. I'm sorry,” he said, as he stood in front of his computer, trying to block her view. “Top secret,” he said jokingly.
Amanda tried to get a glimpse of his screen but caught only some of it. It was an old case, a death she had investigated with Jack a couple of years ago. Raj turned, still keeping himself between her and the computer, and scanned the screen. Then he closed the page down and ran from the room.
What on earth was this all about, she wondered? The room was empty now, apart from one civilian researcher, who was looking curiously up at Amanda from over the top of her own computer screen.
Amanda raised her eyes to the ceiling, grasped her hair in both fists and screamed, “Will someone tell me what's going on?”
The researcher averted her gaze and resumed her work as Amanda stormed from the room, headed towards the back door and fresh air. She was tempted to go and see what was happening in the interview room, but at the same time something told her to keep well away, that she might see something or hear something she wasn't meant to. It seemed everybody in the station was involved in whatever it was except for her.
Out in the car park, Amanda stood blinking in the sunlight, bewildered and suddenly very nervous. She wished she had a cigarette—not that she smoked, but it would give her something to do and perhaps calm her down. Maybe pacing up and down the tarmac would have the same effect, she thought, so she focused on her breathing as she walked from one end to the other. But after a full five minutes, she was still as stressed as ever. She needed something else to occupy her mind.
She dialled Jack’s number, and he answered almost immediately.
“Where are you?” she blurted.
“Not too far away, actually,” said Jack, wincing on the other end of the phone. He was still in the interview observation room. It wasn't a lie as such; he wasn't that far away. “What can I help you with?” he said. “Anything in particular?”
“I just thought since no one will tell me what's going on with Ruth, I might as well crack on with something else and be productive, take my mind off things. I thought I'd go and see Charles Winstanley, see what he says, perhaps help you out with the old case. At least I can put my skills to use trying to get a possibly innocent man out of prison. I’m not allowed anywhere near the landscaper case, or Ruth either, it seems.”
“Good idea,” said Jack. “I was going to call him myself and go and see him with Doc Mitchell, but it may as well be you.”
“Where’s his details, then?”
“The file is on my desk. It's all there, so knock yourself out. I'll speak to you later.”
They rang off, and Amanda had turned to walk back inside when she noticed out of the corner of her eye that Jack's car was actually there, parked in the car park. “What the—?” she said. She marched back inside as fast as her booted feet would take her and stormed into the squad room. It was still empty, except for the researcher who was startled by her presence once more. There was no point making a scene to one person, so, mumbling to herself, Amanda grabbed her bag and then went over to Jack's desk to get the notes. When she’d got what she needed, she headed back out towards her own car. She’d ring the pathologist on the way and hope that he could see her, because there was no way she was staying in the building and being treated like a damn mushroom.
Being kept in the dark and fed bullshit was far too stressful.
Chapter Seventy-Two
It was an easy half-hour journey for Amanda down from Croydon to Leatherhead. She drove past Epsom Downs racecourse and on to Ashtead, where she picked up the A24 and heavy roadworks. It wasn't far from there to the hospital where Dr Charles Winstanley was still working part-time. She’d called his assistant on her way down and told the woman it was of vital importance that she speak with him today, and he had agreed he could spare a few moments later on in the afternoon. She'd sit and wait until he had those moments, but she needed to put her energy into something. Unfortunately, Dr Winstanley was probably going to get more than he bargained for, given the mood she was in.
She parked her car and made her way towards the building, forcing her shoulders down in an effort to stop her insides from churning. She felt like a pent-up steam engine.
“Slow it down,” she coaxed herself. There was no point going in guns blazing and upsetting the poor man. If they were going to get Michael Hardesty out of prison, the
n they needed the good doctor to be on their side rather than going on the defensive straight off. He might also have a simple reason for having missed what they’d seen in the photos.
She called at reception and asked that Winstanley be notified of her arrival, and said she’d wait in reception till he was free. No sooner had Amanda taken a seat than the receptionist called her brightly back over and gave her directions on where to find him. The woman’s ponytail bobbed up and down with each syllable she spoke, though why Amanda noticed it when her brain was so overloaded she had no idea; nonetheless, it amused her just the same. The bobbing ponytail was just the mundane thing she needed to get herself back on track, and she felt herself relax a little more.
She headed down corridors that looked the same as the corridors in any hospital and finally reached the offices of the autopsy suite. She pressed the buzzer and waited. An older woman opened the door and welcomed her into a smaller reception area.
“You must be Detective Lacey,” she said with a bright smile. “Dr Winstanley won't be long. Can I get you a cup of tea, perhaps, or a coffee?”
“A glass of water would be good, actually. Thank you,” said Amanda. She made herself comfortable to wait. Moments later the woman returned with a glass that she plopped down on a glass coaster beside her. Amanda looked through the file notes and photographs again and rehearsed what she was going to say to Winstanley. She dreaded upsetting him, but at the same time they needed to find out what had gone on back then. It was a shame she hadn’t brought Faye Mitchell along—too impatient to get on and do something.
A few minutes later a man appeared in front of her with his hand outstretched. He was no more than five feet tall, with wispy grey hair that stood straight up. She had heard the man looked like Einstein but hadn’t quite realised just how accurate that description was. His friendly smile stretched from one ear to the other, and she took an instant liking to him; he reminded her of everybody's cuddly grandad. She stood towering over him, even though she wore flat boots, and shook his hand briskly.