by Linda Coles
At least they were talking, and Amanda wanted to ask again why Ruth hadn't returned any of her calls, but now didn't seem the right time. There were clearly more important things worrying Ruth; Amanda hated seeing her so distressed. Abandoning caution now, she walked over and took her in a warm embrace, rubbing her back like Jack had rubbed hers not long ago, hoping it gave her comfort too. Whatever happened, it would be a trying time for both of them.
“Do you think Dad did it?” asked Ruth.
“I don't think so,” said Amanda. “I know what people are capable of, but I hate to think that Gordon did do it.”
“And what if he didn't?” said Ruth, struggling to keep her tears at bay.
“Then hopefully there’ll be some evidence to say that he didn't do it, but right now it doesn’t look good. To anyone looking in, a body found in your garden can only mean one thing: the occupant or occupants put it there.”
“But two people lived in that house—Madeline was there as well.” Ruth sniffed loudly.
“Unfortunately, Madeline is not here to answer questions, though, and the CPS will think that one of them couldn't have done it without the knowledge of the other. That they were accomplices.”
“So, you’re saying that just because it was found in Dad’s garden, he is now responsible even though he might not have done it?”
“For some of it at least, unless evidence proves otherwise. Concealing a crime, particularly one as serious as a murder, still holds a sentence.”
Ruth turned back to the window and wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. “How long will we have to wait to find out if Dad will be released tonight?”
“Again, I can't comment, Ruth but I would suspect that he would be held overnight for questioning. That's normal tactic. Your best bet is to talk to his solicitor. Do you have his name and number?”
“I do,” she said. “I can't bear to think of him lying in a prison cell overnight.”
“He’s at the police station, Ruth, not in prison.”
“It's the same thing!” Ruth shouted as she swung round. “He’ll be lying in a cold concrete room with a plastic mattress and a sink if he’s lucky. And he didn't do anything—it's not fair!”
Tears were running freely down her cheeks now, and Amanda could do nothing but give her another hug. Ruth's body shook as Amanda tried to console her, and she sobbed as though her heart would break. Ruth rarely got upset over anything, and while Amanda knew she was worried about her father, she couldn't help wondering what else was on her mind to have elicited such a powerful reaction. Perhaps it was the stress of work added into the fact.
When Ruth’s sobs subsided slightly and she pulled away, Amanda tore a piece of kitchen roll off the dispenser nearby and handed it to her to dry her eyes.
“Let's see what the morning brings,” said Amanda, in as soft a voice as she could muster. “We may well be worrying about nothing. Try and remember that.”
Ruth nodded as she dabbed, then turned back and resumed gazing down the garden. Her shoulders shook slightly and Amanda knew that she was crying again.
Stress affected everyone differently, she thought, but Ruth’s display was wildly out of character.
No, something else was up, Amanda knew.
She didn’t have to wait long to find out what it was.
Chapter Seventy
While Amanda was off the case and sleeping fitfully through the night, another team were going through Gordon's new flat, armed with a search warrant after his arrest. Every drawer, every cupboard door, every nook and cranny was looked into as they searched for something that could possibly link Mr Simpson to the body in his old back garden. Since he’d recently moved house, a lot of his belongings had been sold; not everything from the five-bedroom place would fit into his one-bedroom flat. But he’d kept sentimental things for his new life as a widower.
It was Raj who found the missing link—quite literally. He had been tasked with searching Gordon's bedroom. Gordon it seemed, was a tidy man, a formal man, and looking through his wardrobe Raj stood to admire his array of neatly pressed shirts and nice suits. They weren't overly flashy, but they were nice nonetheless. Appearance was important to Gordon. Raj ran his hand down the sleeves of the shirts, and even through his latex gloves, he could feel the quality of the cotton. They weren't the finest Egyptian, but they weren't high street either—and they were quite possibly made to measure, to boot. Each shirt had double cuffs rather than the regular single button that most men opted for; Gordon really did like the formal feel. But double-cuffed shirts need to be fastened by something other than a button, and it was the cufflink box on the top of his dresser that gave Raj the final clue to Gordon's involvement in the burial of Des Walker. As he tipped the contents out onto the top of the bureau, there were several pairs that he matched together. But there was an odd one left over, and he'd seen it before in a crime scene photograph. The eagle looked straight at him.
“Mr Simpson, what have you been up to?” Raj said to the empty room.
It was identical to the one that had been found in the grave. He slipped it into an evidence bag and labelled it, then alerted the officer in charge of the search.
The search of the rest of Gordon Simpson’s flat turned up nothing more of use, and the team went back to the station. Gordon was still in police custody but wouldn't be questioned again until the morning. Raj wondered how he’d react to the news that the mate to the mystery cufflink had been found in his own trinket box. It didn’t bode well.
Raj felt sorry for Amanda; this wasn't going to be easy to weather. While it wasn't her fault, she was going to feel somewhat embarrassed that her father-in-law had been charged with murder; it was only natural. And as she was close to the case, he knew there’d be people with suspicious minds and gossipy mouths.
Ruth had barely touched her plate at dinner time; Amanda wasn't surprised. She wasn't particularly interested in food herself, but her stomach had grumbled regardless and she’d forced herself. Ruth had then retired to bed early, saying she’d got a banging headache; after her tearful outburst earlier, this was understandable. Amanda had stayed downstairs catching up with work. After that, she watched a little TV and went up to bed just after 10 PM. Ruth had been already fast asleep, which was a good thing. The rest would help her recover and deal with whatever else was to fall on her shoulders. She knew it wasn’t over yet.
When Amanda awoke the following morning, Ruth had already gone, but that was not unusual since it was her early morning running time. She wrapped herself in her pink robe and went downstairs to make the first cup of tea of the day. While she’d managed to sleep herself, she had been aware of Ruth's restlessness, but there was little she’d been able to do to help. The clock on the kitchen wall said it was a little after 6 AM, and the first thing that Amanda thought of was Gordon and how he’d taken his first night in a police cell. After his arrest, she knew there was no way Dupin was going to let him out until he’d used the allocated time to question him. What would today bring, she wondered? Would the CPS charge him? Oh, how she hoped that it wasn't Gordon, that there was another explanation, though what, she couldn't think. Ruth had mentioned Madeline last night, but again Amanda thought there was no way one woman on her own could have disposed of Des Walker’s body; he’d have been a dead weight—literally—and far too heavy for even a muscular man to move, let alone Madeline Simpson. And even if she could have moved the body, there was no way she could have done it all without her husband knowing what was going on. No way. At the very least he had to be an accomplice, and that was a chargeable offence.
By 7 AM Amanda was at work, anxious to find out if anything significant had happened during the night. Even though she wasn't on the case, there was no harm in asking. Whatever the outcome was, she needed to be able to support Ruth as best she could. Forewarned was forearmed.
By 10 AM, Gordon Simpson had been charged with the murder of Desmond Walker. He would appear in the Magistrates Court the following morning. It
wasn’t the news she wanted to hear.
But the day was about to get worse. At 1:35 PM, Jack walked into the squad room, where Amanda sat staring at her blank computer screen, and informed her that Ruth was in reception and wished to talk with the officer in charge of Gordon Simpson’s case.
“What?” she said, her voice full of astonishment. “What is Ruth doing here, and what does she want with Dupin?”
“It’s highly unusual, I know, but get this. She says she's got something to discuss, something that will prove Gordon's innocence.” Jack shook his head in disbelief.
Amanda rose up, ready to head out the door, but Jack put himself in front of her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “Now, you know you can't do anything, so stay put and let me find out what's going on.”
“But Jack, I need to find out for myself!” Her anguish was audible.
“And I will tell you when I know,” he said firmly. “You'll be the first to know. But right now, find something else to do to take your mind off this and trust me. All right?” Jack locked eyes with her, hoping his authority as a friend and colleague would make her see sense. She sat back down.
“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 there for a week on top of a pile of dirt. People came and went, investigating Des Walker’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?”