by Linda Coles
“I really don't know what else I can tell you, Jack—I mean, Detective Rutherford,” said Gordon. “I have no answers, but I certainly haven't done anything wrong. I certainly haven't buried anybody in my own yard. So, I'm going to leave now, and if you've got any more questions, let me know so I can organise a solicitor.” He got to his feet.
“Why would you need a solicitor, Mr Simpson?” enquired Jack.
Chapter Forty-Six
Amanda had watched Jack leave the interview room; she wondered if they were going to get any real results from the interview with Gordon. She, like Jack, knew they had nothing as yet; perhaps the questioning was a little premature. But that didn't mean they couldn't speak to Gordon Simpson again, because right at this moment, it looked like he’d been involved somehow. He'd owned that property until recently and had been there for some years, and while he might not be able to explain it now, there had to be a reason. A body had been found in his garden; whether he knew about it or not was another question.
It had been a couple of hours since they’d left the crime scene and Amanda knew that the SOCO team would be knee-deep in dirt, gathering evidence. She decided she might as well get Des Walker’s dental records organised, in case her suspicions were correct, to make the process of confirmation that bit quicker. She dialled Faye’s number but the call went straight to voicemail. Amanda left a brief message stating that she was organising dental records and asking if there was anything worth reporting as yet. Faye rarely gave much out before her official report, and it drove Amanda and Jack to distraction sometimes, but it was best in the long run.
While she waited for Faye to call her back. Amanda slipped into the coffee cupboard and made herself a decaf. At least she could indulge without the caffeine keeping her awake all night. She put the capsule in, pressed the relevant buttons and waited. She’d have to talk to Ruth later on when she got home and she wasn't looking forward to it, knowing full well Ruth was going to get emotional. The woman could be tough as nails on the outside, but Amanda knew that inside she was as soft as marshmallow, although she rarely showed that side of herself in public. Amanda knew she’d be worried sick about her father and the implications of what they'd found in his old back garden.
Once the capsule had released its contents and the strong aroma of coffee filled her nostrils, she added milk and took it back to her desk to think. The squad room was almost empty. There was just herself and Raj, who sat with his feet up on his desk scrolling through his phone; she assumed he was working. She glanced up at the smeared office windows and smiled as she remembered Jack saying that they worked in a petri dish and that they needed to get new cleaners. It was odd, the things you thought about when you let your mind wander, particularly when it was wandering away from something important that you should be thinking about.
She was dragged back to the present by the ringing of her phone. It was Faye’s ringtone. Amanda clicked Answer and dove straight in without any preamble.
“I know it's too early yet, Faye, but I have an inkling of who this could be, so I thought I would just see what your initial thoughts were and I can get the dental records organised.”
“I understand that, Amanda, but you know as well as I do that science needs to take its time. That said, in this case, since you already have an inkling, I can probably help you with some of it.”
“Like what? What can you tell me?” asked Amanda excitedly.
“What I can tell you is that the body is male, and given his state of decay and the organic evidence around him, he's been in the ground for two to three years. Does that fit with your timeframe?”
“It does, actually. If it's the person I think it is, he would be roughly five foot nine in height. Does that fit too?”
“Well, until I get the whole skeleton back to the morgue and take some accurate measurements, I couldn't say precisely at this moment. But I can tell you that, judging by the long bones, this person wasn't particularly short and they weren't particularly tall.”
“When do you think you will be able to start on the autopsy properly?” Amanda asked.
“We’re still busy excavating and will probably be here until dark, so realistically I'm not going to have much to you until later tomorrow. And we may need the help of a forensic anthropologist we’ll see. I have limited experience with bones.”
“Okay. I'll get the dental records for my possible victim. That timeline fits, as does the height, so hopefully it will make identification that bit quicker.”
“Great. I'll speak to you later on tomorrow then. Thanks, Faye,” Amanda said. “Though I'm not sure if you've made my life easier or harder. I guess we'll find out.”
“That sounds cryptic.”
“I guess it does,” Amanda said resignedly.
She finished her coffee and took her mug back to the coffee cupboard to rinse out. She left it on the draining board, ready for the following morning. There was no sense hanging around the station, so her last chore for the day was to organise getting the dental records. They'd be at the morgue first thing in the morning.
All that was left to do now was go home and have a chat to Ruth. As she pulled out of the car park, she dialled Ruth's number to see if she was on her way home yet. Maybe they'd get take-out for dinner tonight as a distraction on what was going to be a weird evening.
Ruth picked up right away. “I've just got off the tube,” she said without any preamble. “I'm not far from home. Are you on your way back?”
“Great minds think alike,” said Amanda. “I thought I'd come home a bit early. To chat.”
Silence filled the airwaves for a moment before Ruth said, “I suspected you would. May as well get it over with sooner rather than later.”
Amanda could tell Ruth was doing her best to keep it light.
“You're not a suspect, Ruth, but yes, we do need to chat. And sooner.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Amanda had called in at Wong’s on the way home for crispy pork balls and sweet-and-sour sauce. Amanda wasn't sure if she was trying to bribe Ruth or prep her or what she was trying to do with her at all, really, but it felt like a nice touch, a sort of peace offering before the peace was possibly broken. There was no reason for Amanda to think that Ruth was involved in any of this, though she was acutely aware, as she’d said to Jack, that process needed to be followed. Ruth had not lived at Gordon’s old house for many years but had obviously visited. So, what could she possibly know?
The food smelled wonderful in the car, the aroma of warm pork and deep-fried batter making her drool. She hoped there was still a bottle of wine cooling in the fridge; even though it was a school night, she didn't much care about adhering to their own self-imposed rule. She pulled up in front of their house and noted that Ruth was already home, as expected. She gathered her things and the hot food and headed up the garden path, feeling a little nervous about the conversation ahead. Perhaps, in reality, she wasn't the one to do this, but then neither would Jack be. He knew Ruth almost as well as she did; he came for dinner often enough. Sometimes familiarity could be a good thing and sometimes not so much.
Amanda slipped her key into the lock and swung the door open. There was a light breeze blowing through and it nearly caught the front door, so she closed it quickly before it banged shut. That meant the rear door was open; Ruth likely out on the patio.
“Hi, it's me,” she chirped breezily, hoping to take any heaviness out of her tone early on. They'd eat first before she broached the subject.
“Out here,” Ruth shouted back. “I have wine.” There was a singsong tone to her voice; maybe Ruth had already had a glass or two, and was well on her way to becoming merry.
Amanda tossed her car keys in the fruit bowl and dumped her bag and the food on the kitchen table before heading out the back. Ruth was on a sun lounger, eyes closed, soaking in the last few rays of the late afternoon sun. She opened one eye and raised her glass to Amanda. “Can I get you one?” she asked.
“Don't get up.
I'll grab it. I need to get out of my work clothes first. I called and got takeaway from Wong's.”
“Excellent,” said Ruth. “Crispy pork balls, I assume?”
“I would be hung, drawn and quartered if I went to Wong’s and didn't return with pork balls. So yes, we have pork balls. I'll be back in a moment.”
Amanda headed upstairs to change out of her work gear. Her feet were boiling; Jack was right: her boots were far too heavy for warm, sunny days. She slipped into a T-shirt and cotton cargo pants and let her feet breathe a little, wiggling toes on the carpet as if freeing them from the confines of the stiff leather they'd been cooped up in all day. Maybe she’d add nail polish to her toenails later.
Back out on the patio, Ruth had sat up and refilled her own glass, and had poured Amanda a glass anyway.
“Thanks,” Amanda said, taking a large mouthful of chilled white wine. “That tastes so good, but I suspect it's going to go straight to my head. I’ve hardly eaten today.” She sat back and closed her eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun on her face for a moment and wondering if Ruth was going to say anything first.
“Tough day?” Ruth enquired.
“You could say that.” She took a deep breath, then let it out.
“I've put the food in the oven for a moment,” said Ruth. “I figured you'd want to ask me your questions first.”
Amanda opened her eyes and gazed across at her. “I’m sorry about all this,” she said. “I thought we’d eat first. But I don’t mind either way. Maybe it’s best to get the questions out of the way.”
“Ask away, then,” said Ruth encouragingly. “I can't tell you much, though, because there’s not much to tell.”
“I know.” Amanda sat up fully and turned towards Ruth, her face devoid of expression. “Have you any idea who could be buried in the garden of your parents’ house?”
“Absolutely not,” said Ruth flatly.
“Can you think of anybody who would have reason to bury somebody in your parents’ old back garden?”
“No. And I haven’t lived there for a good ten years.”
“Can you remember anybody that was up there when the landscaper went missing? Maybe other work people?”
“What, you think one of them offed somebody and put them in a hole?” Ruth snapped sarcastically. “And since I wasn’t living there—I was here, in this very house—I’ve really no idea what went on up there. Have you?”
“We don't know what has gone on so far, and we won’t know anything more until we have a bit more information from the autopsy. Not that there's a lot left of the body. But, hopefully tomorrow we’ll have confirmation of who the victim is, and that will give us something to work with.”
“So, all your questions at the moment are irrelevant, is what you're saying? Really?” said Ruth smartly.
Amanda bit back a reply. She knew if she carried on there would be one hell of a row, and she didn’t want that. Amanda held her tongue and stayed silent to let Ruth calm back down. When the tense air around them dispersed and the fiery residue of her rebuke had faded, Amanda said, “I’ll go and get dinner. We’ll eat it out here.”
It was exactly the excuse she needed to give Ruth a little space and regroup her own thoughts at the same time.
Chapter Forty-Eight
It was rare that a detective interviewed somebody that they knew in relation to a crime, and there was a reason for that. They were too close to the person, and no matter how tenuous their relationship, they had prior knowledge of them and it was difficult to stay impartial. But, Jack wondered, did he really know Gordon at all?
He’d interviewed many people over his years, various small-time crooks, people that he’d come to know, the regulars that filtered through the system. The petty thieves, the sex workers and the local gang members—they’d all been part of his life.
Jack stood in the doorway now watching Gordon Simpson leave the police station through the front door. His shoulders seemed lower, slumped even, than when he’d first set eyes on him only an hour or so ago. But that could just be the stress of it all; it didn't make a man guilty. Outside the front doors, a few demonstrators with placards saying Police cover-up and Police kill and a few other choice slogans still lingered, but they’d get bored eventually and leave. He hoped. Jack nodded at the desk sergeant and slipped back through to the squad room; it was time to go home. Tonight, he’d got a bowling match to get to and then on for a drink. He thought of Vivian, and he wondered about their ‘date’ later on. If it was a date, even.
By the time Jack arrived home, he had just a few minutes before he had to turn straight back around and get over to the bowling green. He’d grab his gear and devour cold leftovers from the fridge to keep him going. Perhaps he’d eat something later in the pub with Vivian. Opening the front door, he grabbed the mail off the mat and quickly sifted through the envelopes. There was nothing of interest, so he headed off upstairs to get changed into his team kit. He opened the wardrobe where he kept his bowling bag and was greeted by the perfume of lavender from the soap-on-a-rope that still hung in there. Janine had always loved lavender. He took his bag out and as usual, paused for a couple of beats before gently running his fingers across the bowling bag that sat alongside his. Janine's old brown leather bag had been keeping his own company for many years; they were like two old friends. He always paused for a moment when he took his out; he wondered, as he always did, if she was watching him now and smiling as he touched it, remembering her. She’d been pretty good at bowls, and had almost made the national team. He missed her so much that at times it hurt to breathe.
He slowly closed the door and headed back downstairs to the kitchen. Mrs Stewart had been in earlier in the day and, as usual on a bowling night, had known he'd be pushed for time. He was grateful for the yellow Tupperware box of sandwiches that she’d left in the fridge with a note propped on top: ‘Open in case of emergency.’ Jack grinned at her thoughtfulness. It was the older woman’s idea of a joke, but one that he appreciated because it meant he could eat on the way and he wouldn't arrive out of breath or late. Mrs Stewart was a wonderful woman and a real find, and he wondered how he’d managed in all the time that Janine had been gone, struggling along on his own. In fact, he hadn't really managed at all. He’d let himself go. His appearance, his eating habits, his sleeping habits. But now with some order back in his life, he was functioning better and was a good deal happier all round.
Back in his car, he set off towards the bowling club grounds with cheese and pickle in one hand, the steering wheel in the other as he navigated the remainder of the rush-hour traffic. When he pulled up at a set of traffic lights, he rested his sandwich back in the box and fiddled with his Spotify app for a particular playlist. And a certain song. It was becoming a bit of a ritual for bowling night music, and as ELO's “Sweet Talkin’ Woman” filled the car, he allowed himself to think back as he always did to his Janine. He could see her so clearly, like she had gone only yesterday. In his vision, she was dressed in white, but not as an angel: she was in her bowling gear, looking happy and radiant as she always did. Jack sang along hoping that she could hear him; it was as though the words had been written for her. He missed her every single day.
By the time the song had finished, he was pulling into the car park alongside Mrs Stewart’s old beige Escort. Her car was empty, so Jack figured she must be already in the clubhouse. He took the opportunity to stuff the last of the sandwich into his mouth and swallow before anyone saw him, then grabbed his bag off the front seat and headed inside to find the rest of his team. As he walked through the doorway, he was greeted with a sea of white clothing and mainly white hair. It could have been any cricket or tennis club across the country, though with older players. Most of the members were either retired or semi-retired, with only a handful of younger players that had taken up the sport after their parents had got them interested in it. Jack was considered a younger player— his hair wasn’t all white, not yet.
He caught Mrs Stewart’s e
ye. She was chatting to a friend in the far corner of the room, and she waved back in greeting. Looking around the room for the rest of his teammates, he found Jim, who had once been the barman of a local pub that Jack had frequented, The Jolly Carter, and he headed over to say hello. Jim had been the landlord for as long as Jack could remember, at least 20 years, but had given it up a couple of years ago. Now retired, he still sported a huge beer gut and the ruddy face of a man accustomed to drinking copious quantities of ale each and every day. He reminded Jack of a huge garden gnome, but without the ever-present smile. Jim had always been a bit of a sourpuss during his time as a landlord and had been single for most of his life, probably because of his demeanour, but he was now finally stepping out with a woman. Jack assumed it was this particular lady friend that was putting a smile on his face now; he greeted Jack warmly with a firm shake of his hand. Sourpuss had turned into someone a little sweeter. Retirement and a woman were agreeing with him.
“Are you ready for this, Jack?” Jim enquired. “It's going be good tonight. I can feel it in my water.”
“I hope so,” said Jack. “I could do with something to take my mind off work. Though there’s got to be something a little more entertaining for my mind than your waterworks.”
Jim guffawed, the sound filling the small room. When the noise level had settled back down, he carried on. “Busy, are you?” the big man asked.
“Always am, it seems.”
“What are you working on?”
“Ah, you know, the usual. Dead bodies.” Jack didn’t really want to talk about it, but he didn’t want to appear rude either.
“You all must be sick of the grief outside your station with all those demonstrators, I expect. A bit noisy, I shouldn’t wonder.”