“Not unusual. Though there are people on holiday. Which I find odd at a time like this for their homes. Priorities seem skewed in some these days.”
“Do you…” Mills had started but was abruptly interrupted by Mrs. Mullins.
“The Smalley family left for Tenerife last week on Tuesday. He lives two doors north of here. Sarah Dunsten departed two days ago for parts unknown. She lives at the end of the road. Graham Chestnut and his,” Mrs. Mullins made air-quotes with her fingers, “’assistant’ left last night for some hidden spot. When they’re here, they’re directly behind this house.”
Crothers and Mills made furious notes in their matching little books before Mills continued by handing Mrs. Mullins a sheet of paper.
“Do any of those codes look familiar to you?”
Her eyes were already scanning the page, line by line, her head barely moving throughout the act.
“These are useless.”
“Useless? But doesn’t everyone…”
Mrs. Mullins rolled her eyes and sighed as she interrupted Mills.
“No. Everyone’s numbers are known to everyone else. The security is a joke here. Within days of moving in, people were using their codes in a lottery for frivolous goods set up by that odious buffoon Buchan. Typically of mediocre minds, everyone got a prize. Anyone paying attention would know all of the codes.”
In a staccato machine gun of words, Mrs. Mullins had shredded a key piece of evidence. Mills stared at her, jaw slack as his mind took in the implications. She returned his gaze without blinking, a look of slight annoyance in the lines around her eyes. Crothers maneuverer around the silence and said:
“Did you observe any interaction between Mr. Carstairs and another resident that might have been, maybe, inappropriate?”
Swivelling her head, Mrs. Mullins forgot Mills and focused heavily upon Crothers.
“I do not have all day to spend observing my neighbours, Inspector. But you seem to be implying impropriety between residents and I can safely say that it occurs. Rather regularly.”
“And Mr. Carstairs?”
“I cannot say. He works and is at home. There is little time he is not in either place. Unless his dalliance is near his workplace, which I would not observe, I doubt very much he had an opportunity at home.”
“And how about Mrs. Dunsten?”
“Miss,” hissed Mrs. Mullins who dragged on the ‘s’ for a little too long. “I am not the keeper of private lives, and I rarely interact with anyone here except at the meetings.”
Crothers nodded solemnly. He had hoped that a connection between the Carstairs and someone inside the estate would have been a poorly kept secret.
Rising from their respective seats, the Inspectors placed the cold teacups upon a dazzlingly silver tray and thanked Mrs. Mullins for her hospitality. Frost gleamed around the edges of her dismissive response.
The door found its jamb solidly as the Inspectors were halfway to the road.
Mills shivered briefly in the afternoon sun.
“She should open a bed and breakfast. That hospitality would be legend.”
Chirps came from Crothers’ pocket, and he reached in to grab his phone.
Chapter 8
Diane Dimbleby sat in her car outside of the home. Monique Carstairs had been seen safely inside by Albert who had prowled forth with the gait of a prowling tiger. The phone pressed to her ear was briefly forgotten as Diane scanned the mirrors of her car for any activity.
“Ah, Inspector. I have some news for you.”
Diane waited while the Inspector regaled her with all of the reasons that she should not be getting herself involved past keeping Mrs. Carstairs safe. She held her tongue in the way she had when a student had given an excuse for breaching school rules. The words entered her ears but were not processed into a recognizable pattern. When she heard the noise end, she began again.
“I have news for you. We paid a small visit to a rather unsavoury man, Eddie Tomkins. He’s in charge of the MizzenMount takeover.”
Diane waited for a response as there was a muffled discussion on the other end of the line. She clearly heard teeth being sucked followed by a brief exchange.
“Diane, you need to stay away from that man. He’s got underworld connections and is suspected of some pretty serious things.”
“Like the disappearance of Jonathan Carstairs maybe?”
“Maybe, now we know he is involved. Just go home and lock the doors until you hear from me. You’re not messing with a village pickpocket. This guy is dangerous.”
“Everything is fine, Inspector. There’s no need to worry. We just arrived, and Albert has secured the perimeter. Now, have there been any other developments I can pass on?”
“You know I can’t tell you much, this is a police inquiry.”
“Well, at least tell me if anything was missing from the house so I can pass it on to Monique. She’s awfully worried about it all.”
Inspector Crothers paused, and Diane could almost hear the internal discussion that was taking place. She wished he would see the futility of holding back information from her. It had almost cost a life before now.
“Nothing was missing that we have found,” said the Inspector finally. There was a cautious tone to his voice, as if he were still unsure of passing on the information. “The main damage was to a couple of pictures and the laptop computer.”
“The computer? Well, that’s a little unusual. Surely someone would have taken that in a robbery.”
“Exactly. But instead it was destroyed beyond possible recovery, according to our people.”
“And nothing else missing or damaged?” Diane asked as she frowned at her reflection in the windscreen.
“The graffiti. A cracked picture or two. The rest of the mess is just that, a mess. Things have been moved around, but little else is damaged.”
“Very interesting, eh Inspector? I wonder what that computer held that needed to be destroyed.”
“We may never find out, unfortunately.”
A flicker of activity in her mind brought a memory to the fore. A book she had been researching that had a similar situation: computer lost, all of the important law documents missing, and she had found a way. The answer had come when she had put a call into the school’s old IT technician, Tony Eccles, a retired insurance salesman who had trained himself in electronics to keep himself busy and “to keep the Devil away from my idle hands.”
“Inspector, there was a printer, yes?”
Inspector Crothers grunted an affirmative.
“Excellent! Now listen carefully. Have your forensics team check if it still has power. If it does, there’s a flash memory in the printer that should still hold information about a document or two that it printed last.”
Diane continued with the details, making sure that the Inspector had time to scribble everything down. When she had finished, Diane waited as the Inspector spoke to someone on the other end of the line and there was a ripping of paper. Finally, he returned:
“One final thing. Has Monique ever mentioned a Sarah Dunsten during your talks?”
“Not that I recall, Inspector. I’ve been trying to distract her for the majority of the time to keep her mind off the situation. Not that I’ve been wholly successful. But no, to answer your question: no Sarah Dunsten.”
“Thank you, Diane. I’ve got to get these instructions to the lab boys. I have to go.”
“You see, Inspector? I can be very useful to you if you keep me informed.”
Inspector Crothers gave a half-hearted reply that said nothing before they both ended the call.
Sitting in her car for a few more moments, Diane pondered the new information, adjusting the map of events in her mind and plotting the positions of different players. It had continued to be a very enlightening day and Diane thought that she might be homing in on the truth of it all.
As a heavy cloud draped a grey cloth over the weak sun, Diane turned to her phone again. She dialled Albert and, after
a short exchange, drove to the small Apple Mews market and bought some Bourbon biscuits.
Chapter 9
“Sarah Dunsten?” Monique chewed up her lip, her brow furrowed with concentration.
Diane laid a hand on Monique’s arm for quiet reassurance before she went on.
“Now, don’t make anything out of this. It’s purely an inquiry from Inspector Crothers. Do you know if Jonathan knew her?”
“Knew her?” said Monique, turning her frown upon Diane. “If I didn’t know her then…”
The grooves in Monique’s brow grew deeper for a moment, and she tapped a finger upon her knee as if deleting notes from a page.
“Saraaah.” The last syllable hung in the air as a look of enlightenment entered Monique’s eyes. “Oh yes, we do know her. Well, I say ‘we.' Jonathan knew her more than me.”
“Did he now?” Diane shot a knowing glance over at Albert, who was doing a very poor job of pretending to read a magazine.
“He was always so helpful to everyone. He helped her with her taxes a month or two ago, what with him being a financial whiz and taxes being so confusing, wouldn’t you agree? He did them for a few of the neighbours.”
“That was very kind of him. I have Albert do mine, though I think he has as many problems as I do.”
Albert peered over the top of the magazine with a feigned look of outrage.
“I’ll have you know I’ve never been to jail for anything I’ve filed yet.” From behind the pages, he brandished crossed fingers at the ladies. “But, with luck, there’s always next year.”
“They wouldn’t take you,” replied Diane. “Or if they did, they’d send you back quick enough.”
Monique giggled at the banter and Albert, ever the gentleman, stuck out his tongue before loudly rustling the magazine and covering his face. Diane smiled softly before returning a more serious gaze to Monique.
“So he was friends with Sarah?”
“I don’t know about friends. I mean, he would go over to her house around once a week to get the taxes done. And they would go to the resident meetings together. I never enjoyed them so Jonathan, being a dear, said I didn’t have to go, and Sarah went with him instead.”
“There was a fairly regular interaction then?”
“I suppose so. He never really talked about work, even things he was doing with friends.”
“Excuse me for a second,” said Diane as she rose and went to the kitchen, asking on her way, “Coffee anyone?”
Two voices replied with affirmation as Diane rattled a couple of cups before tapping out a series of text messages to Inspector Crothers.
Chapter 10
“That’s definitely her number,” said Mills as he emphasized lines of text on two sheets of paper with his thumbs. “Perfect timing too.”
Crothers interrupted by answering his phone and uttering “I see” several times.
“She was friends with Jonathan, according to Monique.” Crothers hung up the phone and returned it to his pocket.
“Friends, is it.” Mills had a grin that quirked one cheek. “I bet they were just friends. And now she’s conveniently on holiday.”
Crothers nodded slowly. He did not like how convenient it seemed to be.
“I think we need to have a chat with Buchan again.”
Mills agreed and made for the Constable standing before the Carstairs’ house. The exchange was brief, and Mills waved Crothers to follow as he stalked up the street towards an immaculate pink house. Their heavy feet left deep gouges in the plush grass of the lawn as they made straight for the front door, a decoration-heavy wreath sagging across the top third. Ignoring the doorbell, Mills slammed his fist against the door, bouncing the wreath and shaking loose several glass berries that tinkled to the doorstep. Before the door had rattled in its frame for the third time, Buchan appeared, pulling the door inward as if to protect it from further damage.
“Detectives. How may I h-help you?” A sickly grin, obsequious in its extremity, wrinkled the skin around Buchan’s eyes as he bowed slightly.
“Dunsten, Sarah. What do you know about her?” Mills expressed sharply. “Her and the Carstairs family.”
“Well, you know I don’t keep t-tabs on everyone all of the t-time.”
“We don’t need their bathroom habits,” said Mills.
“Tell us about when you’ve seen Jonathan Carstairs and Ms. Dunsten together.” Crothers’ tone was mild, more placating, compared to Mills. “When did you see them?”
“Not often, I know that,” said Buchan meekly. “I mean, they came to several residents’ meetings together. I saw them enter and was surprised Mr. Carstairs wasn’t with his wife.”
“Why were you surprised?”
“Well, the Carstairs were never f-far apart. Mrs. Carstairs would usually be with him at the meetings. She was definitely there at the latest one, but they didn’t arrive with Ms. Dunsten.” Buchan pondered for a second before continuing. “In fact, Jonathan wasn’t with Sarah for the last couple of meetings. I didn’t even see them interact, s-sat across the room from each other, as I recall.”
“But they were friends?”
“I couldn’t say. They s-seemed to be at the meetings. But, understand Detectives, I rarely saw them outside of meetings.”
“Did Sarah Dunsten seem upset at the last meeting, where you and Jonathan Carstairs had your little spat?”
Buchan shrank back, losing a foot in height as Mills put heavy emphasis on the sentence.
“I-I swear, Inspector, I don’t remember. I was too worked up about Jonathan’s proposal. I st-stormed out directly after I…”
“After you threatened him,” stated Mills, finishing the thought.
Buchan nodded meekly.
“Alright,” said Mills, losing the tone of accusation from his voice. “We’re going to need to see Sarah Dunsten’s house and talk to her neighbours. Lead on, Mr. Buchan.” A slab of a hand waved to the street, Buchan flinching slightly as it passed his direction.
Buchan pulled the front door closed behind him and walked up the street, turning frequently to look at the Inspectors towering behind him, like an obedient dog checking his master was still in tow.
“You won’t have much luck with neighbours, I think, Inspectors,” Buchan spoke over his shoulder so that his quiet comment could be heard. “We’ve had s-several people move out due to financial constraints. Sarah’s had no neighbours for a few months.”
“Another coincidence?” said Crothers.
“Get enough coincidences in a room, and you can get a conviction,” replied Mills.
The group walked for several minutes passing houses in various states of occupancy, the length of the grass in the front garden being a good indicator of the period of time since mowing was a priority. Apart from the variation in colour schemes and the odd hanging basket or ornament on a door, the group may as well have been walking on a treadmill with a looping movie reel of houses projected around them to give the illusion of movement. Eventually, before a house that could have been one they passed two, five, or ten minutes earlier, Buchan stopped and indicated with a hand.
“Stay here,” said Mills, the menace back in his voice, eyebrows knotted and casting a shadow over his eyes. “You may still be of interest.”
Crothers was already striding towards the side of the house as Mills made for the front door. Rapping briskly on the frame, Mills called out for Sarah to open the door. Other than echoes of his own activity reflecting off the surrounding houses, Mills received no response. He knocked again, and again, louder and with more force in his voice each time and every effort was greeted with the same silence.
“Nothing back here,” yelled Crothers. “Locked up tight.”
Wandering around the perimeter of the house, each officer peered into windows and through the letterbox. Nothing stirred in the house, and no vehicle was found.
“She looks to have gone,” said Mills, resting his back against the sidewall of the house.
“And n
o neighbours to see if she had a passenger.” Crothers looked around at the adjacent property as he dropped against the wall next to Mills.
“Just to ice it off, I bet she didn’t tell anyone where she was going either.”
Crothers laid his head back against the rough brick. There was evidence by the crime-scene-van-load, but it all seemed to be inconclusive. No fingerprints, no DNA, no locations of the missing people. Circumstantially, Sarah Dunsten was lining up as the primary suspect. Probably an affair, running away together like two kids escaping overbearing parents, leaving their troubles behind to live a dream. Naiveté and the draw of a fantasy never left as you aged. The fantasies faded under the glare of reality and naiveté led to pain. You’re getting even more cynical, thought Crothers, and it brought a wry smile to his face. His wife was telling him that all the time and his denials were numerous and energetic.
“If Eddie Tomkins is involved, I bet there’s a mound of money in play too,” said Mills, pushing up from the wall. “Money and a mistress can make a man do crazy things.”
“But what about the house ransacking? It seems so unnecessary.”
“Unless she had a boyfriend too. Or Monique was caught with her hand in the cookie jar. It’s amazing how selfish people can be. Their own affairs are okay, but if their partner does it… I’ve seen my share of crimes stemming from that.”
Crothers nodded solemnly. What’s good for the gander is not always good for the goose, if the gander finds out.
He pushed himself off the wall to follow Mills who had started to walk back to Buchan, who was glancing nervously around the side of the house. His eyes traced a line down the wall of the adjacent house and onto a side door. Crothers stopped mid-push, leaving himself angled slightly backwards. He tilted his head and stared at the frame of the door. It seemed to be darker on one side than the other as if a shadow was projecting from the surrounding brickwork. The problem was that the sun had dipped behind trees to the west and the door was on the east side of the building.
Completing his ascent, Crothers gave a sharp whistle, attracting Mills’ attention. He stepped calmly and quietly across the small grass partition between the two properties and over a low wall. Mills came in from the front side of the house, through a shallow wrought-iron gate. Crothers took one side of the door and Mills stood ready at the other. With a nod, Mills pushed on the door with a knuckle, and it swung smoothly inwards. The movement was not greeted by an exclamation or the crack of the door against a skull from someone spying on their search. It flew quietly backwards until arrested by a rubber doorstop.
Murder in the Development Page 6