Eventually, as the drinks dried up, Crothers stood and placed his mug on the tray that Diane had left on the sideboard.
“Probably time for us to go,” he said, looking at Mills.
“Yes, yes. Delicious biscuits,” said Mills who handed his cup to Crothers. “Lots to do. I need to check in with the Crime Scene Investigator at the house and find out what’s emerged.”
Turning to Monique, Crothers said:
“We will be in touch very soon. I’ll let you know as soon as we find anything.”
“And I’ll let you know if Monique remembers anything,” said Diane. “Now let me show you out.”
Monique thanked the officers and finished her drink. She helped Albert collect the tray, and they took it to the kitchen where more rattling ensued.
Diane unlocked the door, and the men walked out into the yard. Crothers turned to say his farewell and found Diane directly behind him, her hand pulling the door shut behind them.
“Inspector,” she said in a harsh whisper. “I may have something to add that I’m not sure Monique knew about. And I don’t want to alarm her if it’s nothing.”
Mills went to speak but stopped when Crothers nodded to him. We should listen, it implied. Crothers gripped Diane’s elbow gently, and the three of them walked a little further down the pathway.
“Jonathan Carstairs might be the focus of the break-in. That word ‘TRAITOR’ seems very odd if directed at Monique, but not so much for Jonathan.”
“You know he has enemies?”
“Maybe. His job is to liquidate companies, and there might be someone in the community where they live that got the short end of the stick from him because of it. This economy hasn’t been kind to many people recently.”
“So the ‘TRAITOR’ might have been someone that Jonathan saw as a friend but who held a grudge because he had sold his livelihood from underneath him.”
“Or her, Inspector.”
“Of course. And that might explain his disappearance too.”
“Possibly,” said Diane. “If someone will break into a home and damage it like that, it’s not a stretch to think they might be capable of more. A lot of anger went into that.”
Mills interjected:
“He could just be hiding out. Maybe he got a threat against him. I’m not sure his wife would have known; she seems pretty oblivious to anything that her husband is involved in.”
“We can hope that is the case,” said Diane. “I just sense something dark in this. I hope I’m very wrong.”
“We do too,” said Crothers. “Now, we must get on with our inquiries. Do you need me to post a police officer?”
“I don’t think so,” said Diane. “Albert and Rufus can take care of us.”
She turned back to the house and heard the gate shut behind the two policemen. She pushed open the door and found Monique in the hallway, turning to head upstairs.
“Albert suggested I get unpacked and take a rest,” said Monique.
Diane noted that she seemed calmer, much more so than when she had first arrived that morning. She concluded that it must be the relief that action was finally being taken.
“A very good idea. Make yourself at home, dear. Don’t worry about lunch, we’ll set something aside for you if you drop off.”
“You’re so kind,” said Monique as she mounted the stairs.
Diane clicked the lock on the front door and returned to the living room to see Albert lounging on the sofa again with his magazine.
“Backdoor’s locked too.” He did not look up from the magazine as he worked his slippers off his feet. “Make any progress?”
“It’s hard to say,” said Diane as she walked over to her writing desk and her notebook. “There are possibilities opening up.”
“Good! You’ll have it cracked by nightfall then.” Albert was jovial, his faith in Diane’s skills buoying his spirits.
“That’s a long time away, and there’s so much we don’t know.”
“Yet.”
“I’ve got plenty to do till then.”
“Release the hounds!” said Albert who was now lying across the sofa. “Let the hunt begin!”
Diane looked at her notes and tried to let Albert’s brightening spirits lift her own. She tried. A darkness sat heavily upon them, however, and the more Diane considered the possibilities, the more leaden her spirits became. There was a wicked person on the loose and, if the anger shown in the house was any indicator, the Carstairs may be in serious danger. And as the protectors of Monique, she and Albert may have brought that evil straight to their own door.
Chapter 4
“Birmingham New Street has been a bit of a bust.” Sergeant Barnes’s metallic voice came from the speakers of the car across the secure radio channel. “No-one recognized the picture we sent over. They’ve got someone in with the Transport Police now, looking over the CCTV footage of the platform. They think it’ll take a while; they have been putting in more cameras due to the terrorism issue.”
“Alright,” said Inspector Crothers. “Keep in touch with them. What’s the news on our search?”
“The same outcome so far, sir. No-one remembers seeing Mr. Carstairs in the station last night. CCTV review there too. I’ve got a couple of lads looking for the crew of the train, but that will take some time. They could be anywhere on a train today.”
Crothers acknowledged the Sergeant’s report and disconnected, hanging the radio under the dashboard.
“Nothing new there either, eh,” said Detective Mills. “Goes about perfect with the unmanned station near his house too. He’s pretty elusive for someone that doesn’t seem to have a secret worse than he bites his nails.”
Crothers looked at the blurred hedges as Mills raced them along the motorway toward the Carstairs’ home. A disappearance with a vandalized home of a couple who had about as much connection with the criminal underworld as a mouse had with racketeering.
“There’s always a deeper secret if you search hard enough. I wonder what the Mr. and Mrs. Carstairs have that is keeping the closet skeletons company.”
“My money’s on a Mistress.” Mills dropped a couple of gears to take the exit at a reasonable speed. “Or on the missus having a friend of her own. There’s some natural tendency for promiscuity among the wealthier set.”
The car curved smoothly onto a roundabout and Mills flowed with the traffic and onto the northbound road.
“I’m not so sure,” said Crothers, frowning unconsciously. “Why destroy the house if he’s just running off with someone?”
“Throw everyone off the trail, maybe. Or it could be Monique Carstairs has a bit of a vicious streak and is getting her runaway husband into some hot water. Start a manhunt while he’s oblivious and shacked up with his mistress.”
“She didn’t seem the devious sort like that,” said Crothers. Though he admitted to himself, you really couldn’t tell the devious ones until they got careless.
Mills had been racing along a wooded road over a sequence of gentle ripples in the countryside when he braked hard on a rise and turned right into a wide driveway. There was no street sign or engraved wall at the entrance, but from the high fence, large secure gate, and the line of large houses standing beyond, Crothers assumed they had arrived.
Beside the tall spiked gate stood a single police constable, the neat uniform and shining shoes and badge on the helmet seemingly transported from a pre-war photograph. Crothers wondered if he had a bicycle propped against the back of the wall. Had he been called from chasing children that were scrumping for apples in a farmer’s orchard?
As the car pulled towards the gate, the Constable raised his hand to motion the vehicle to a standstill, as if the imposing wrought iron gate was not right behind him. He walked slowly to the driver’s window, and Mills rolled it down, flashing his identification at the stooping officer.
“Ah, oh, very good sir,” said the Constable as he stepped back and straightened up.
“Any visitors I should know
about?”
“No, sir. No-one that doesn’t live here. And the residents have been kept inside, as you requested.”
“Very good.” Mills waved a hand at a keypad that curved from a pole several feet before the gate. “How about the key logs for the gate?”
“Mr. Matthew Buchan has been retrieving those, sir. He’s a resident and the go-between for the residents and the company that owns the property. He said he would meet you by the house, sir.”
“Excellent. Well, thank you, Constable…”
“Michaels, sir.”
“Thank you, Michaels. Now key us in, if you would.”
Michaels saluted and turned very stiffly to the keypad. The local police had been given their own keycode for the gates when the property had been built, in case of emergencies. Mills had been given the code but always enjoyed flexing a little authoritarian muscle once in a while.
With the last keystroke, the gates shuddered and began to slide to the left across, the black spikes waggling like a troop of drunken pikemen across a tar-black river.
Mills moved the car through the gate and gave the constable a cursory salute. Crothers watched the road snake away ahead of them, up a small rise through what had once been neatly trimmed hedges. Beyond the hedges, grass that should have been neatly manicured was splotched brown in places, and a steady breeze rippled the overly long blades.
The road looked smooth from the gateway and yet as they passed over it, holes and cracks appeared, hidden by shadow from outsiders. A lane branched from the main road that led down to a swimming pool that had a sagging blue plastic sheet draped over it, held in place at the edges by several large tires.
The grounds spoke of past wealth, of a place that had once had staff to maintain it, of a place that was cutting budgets by removing the non-essential in order to fight for fiscal life. The sights on the drive to the collection of houses were enough to tell Inspector Crothers that the company that ran the place was in financial trouble.
Houses stood at the top of the first rise. Each had two floors with a basement level that opened up behind the house onto a large deck. Fake wooden beams outlined regions of the exterior of the house while a light brown filled in the areas between them and the windows.
As the car pulled past the first houses, Crothers could see that every house was identical in every way. Small green patches of grass surrounded by low rockwork and shrubs sat at the front, the grass wrapping around either side and continuing to a spacious area behind. There were no fences. Nothing to delineate one property from the next and, Crothers assumed, keep the view of everyone else from being spoiled.
And what a view it was. The vantage point of the houses on the rise gave an unhindered view of the surrounding countryside. A small waterway wrapped around the edge of the property and a wall of trees sprouted from the far bank. Each house looked out over the tops of a many-hued woodland, blemished only by a sporadic mobile phone tower. There was an ancient look to the trees, as if looking out upon an earlier century before humanity had sliced its way through nature. There was a peace and calm to the surrounding land, the bustle of the modern world hidden for the most part so that tranquillity remained.
Mills pulled the car up to a house that had several other police vehicles around it, including a transit van for the forensic group. Crothers noted the newer models of the cars, compared them to his own station’s older collection, and wondered where the money had come from.
A small man in a pale orange sweatshirt and tan trousers was being very animated in front of a bored-looking uniformed constable. He waved a sheaf of papers at the officer, who took a moment before slowly replying. This threw accelerant on whatever fire was under the other man, whose face became a shade of deep red that spread up into his receding hairline. He barked something to which the constable reacted immediately by standing taller and frowning heavily. A line had been crossed and the frantic man took several steps backwards and put his hands together in front of his chest.
Crothers and Mills got out of the car and approached the confrontation. The constable glanced in their direction, and the lines on his face flattened.
“This is the Inspector,” he said sharply. “You should watch how you talk to him too.”
“Ah, oh,” stammered the small man as he turned to DI Mills. “Ah, thank you, ah, constable.”
Switching hands with his papers, he extended one in the direction of Mills who looked at it for a moment, looked into the man’s face, and just as the moment was becoming uncomfortable, shook the hand.
“Inspector, I am, ah, Matthew Buchan. I, ah, I, uh, liaise with MizzenMount for the residents.”
He threw a half-hearted smile at Mills, who nodded in a noncommittal manner.
“Someone asked me to, uh, get these codes, ah, for the gate.”
“Great. They’ll be very helpful.” Mills reached forward and took the papers from Matthew, without them being offered to him.
Mills turned towards Crothers and nodded faintly while Matthew Buchan waited, confused as to whether he should stay or leave. Crothers stepped up to him and ended his quandary.
“How do you know Jonathan Carstairs?” He gave himself no introduction and the question was abrupt enough to startle Matthew Buchan.
“I, uh, Jonathan? I, uh, he’s a resident here.” Matthew’s eyes darted between Crothers and Mills, who had wandered over to the berated constable.
“We know that,” said Crothers, his tone one of irritation. “When did you last see him?”
“See him? Oh, uh, at the last resident meeting, I think.”
“You think?”
“Yes yes, it was then. I remember distinctly now. It was, uh, most unpleasant.”
“Unpleasant? When was this meeting?”
Crothers neatly pulled a notebook from his pocket without taking his gaze from Matthew. He flipped it open and wrote without looking. Matthew stared at the book quickly before meeting Crothers’ gaze again. Several beads of sweat had sprouted on his forehead even in the chilly breeze.
“Last week. Uh, we had a bit of a… ah, heated, uh, discussion.”
“Indeed,” said Crothers with interest. “About?”
“Jonathan came to tell us that, as he was, uh, the liquidator for MizzenMount, that he had, ah, decided to sell to a local developer.” As he spoke, Matthew’s voice became less hesitant, and his body became more animated again. “I told him that all the creditors would be paid soon and that wouldn’t be, ah, necessary. But he wouldn’t listen. He kept saying it was in the best interest of everyone and we got quite loud about it. Finally, he stormed out. I’ve been doing everything I can to stop this sale ever since.”
Crothers raised an eyebrow at Matthew, who was too busy waving his arms and muttering under his breath to notice.
“Did anyone threaten Jonathan at the meeting, or after?”
The hand flapping stopped, and Matthew stared directly into Crothers' face as the sweat beads multiplied.
“Who, uh, who, ah, who told you?”
“Answer the question.” There was a stern edge to Crothers' voice as he watched the suddenly calm man.
“Uh, I did. I, ah, told him that, ah, he was going to regret this if, ah, this was the last thing I, oh, did.”
Matthew bit his bottom lip and let his eyes grow wide.
“I didn’t do anything to the house though,” he said quickly. “That’s why all the police are here. Someone did something to it?”
Crothers remained quiet and just stared, letting Matthew’s mind do all the work.
“Oh God,” said Matthew breathily. “Oh God, is Jonathan…” His eyes tracked to the house. “Oh God.”
“No,” replied Crothers. “Though he is missing, and we’re looking at who might have had an interest in aiding his disappearance.”
“You don’t think I…”
“You really should finish important sentences,” said Crothers. “But yes, you’re on that list. Don’t leave the area without letting us know.”
Crothers scribbled a doodle in the notebook, slapped it shut and turned his back on Matthew Buchan, whose face had drained of colour while his sweat beads had joined together to run tracks down his forehead.
Mills met Crothers at the car and leaned over the bonnet to say:
“That poor fella is going to need some darker trousers after that.”
They both climbed into the car and began to exchange information.
Chapter 5
The drab red brick building of the Urban Development and Planning Office receded into Diane’s rear-view mirror. Monique sat primly in the passenger seat, hands folded on her lap, staring directly ahead through the windscreen.
Albert’s voice came slightly distorted from the speakers in the car.
“Not a sausage.”
“You’re sure?” Diane flipped an indicator and merged onto a quiet road.
“I’ve taken Rufus out twice so far for a walk around the block. I didn’t think he could frown at me any more than he already did, but he’s doing it. Anyway, nothing has changed, and I’ve had my binoculars out, looking through the bedroom window.”
“Hopefully the neighbours don’t report you for twitching the net curtains,” chuckled Diane.
“Seeing old Ronny Larkin in his skivvies would be punishment enough. My eyes are burning at just the thought.”
“That is not a mental image I need,” chided Diane. “Well keep a good lookout. We can never be too sure.”
“Have no fear, Rufus is on the case!” Albert paused briefly before becoming more serious. “Any luck finding the developer?”
“Yes, we’ve got a good lead. They had applied for construction permits for the estate already. That means they must have been awfully certain about getting the property. There’s a lot of money in this too.”
Murder in the Development Page 4