The Clifftop Murders (Dorset Crime Book 2)

by Rachel McLean

  “I don’t want to know,” she told him. “I just need a response to my solicitor’s letter.”

  In the letter, she’d said that she was contesting his claim for divorce. He’d tried to claim unreasonable behaviour, saying she worked too hard and had been impossible to live with. But she had bigger guns than that. She had evidence of adultery. For Christ’s sake, she’d walked in on the two of them.

  She reached the outskirts of Dorchester and indicated to turn right into the town. “I’m working,” she said. “You’ve seen my lawyer’s letter, you need to respond formally.”

  “I think we should go for mediation,” he told her. “Talk it through like adults.”

  She took a left turn, and then a right. She wasn’t entirely sure where the forensics lab was, but was driving blindly, making for the town centre.

  “I’ll think about it,” she told Terry.

  “Thanks,” he replied.

  She jabbed at the phone to end the call, her body hot. She was lost, but she didn’t care.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Dennis checked his watch. Five past twelve, an acceptable time to take a break. He looked up from his desk.

  “Johnny, you got half an hour?”

  Johnny frowned. “Half an hour, Sarge? What’s up?”

  “Let’s go get a pint.”

  “A pint?”

  “It doesn’t have to be a pint, Johnny. Let’s just get some fresh air, OK?”

  Johnny shrugged. He exchanged glances with Mike and stood up. He grabbed his suit jacket and slung it over his shoulders.

  “Come on then,” said Dennis.

  “Just a moment, Sarge.” Johnny opened the top drawer of his desk and rifled inside. He pulled out some cash and put it in his pocket. Dennis wondered whether the DC even owned a wallet.

  Twenty minutes later, they were in the Ship Inn. It was a homely pub with heavy furniture and a wide fireplace, not lit today. Dennis ordered a pint of bitter shandy and a cheese and tomato sandwich. Johnny had chosen a pint of some new-fangled lager and a fish finger sandwich.

  Dennis eyed it. “Fish finger sandwich?” he said. “What’s this, nursery?”

  Johnny held his hand in front of his mouth, crumbs dropping onto the table. “It’s trendy these days, Sarge.”

  “How can a fish finger sandwich be trendy?”

  Johnny shrugged. “Posh fish fingers, I guess. Fancy tartare sauce.”

  “Looks like the fish finger sandwiches my mum used to give me,” said Dennis.

  Johnny swallowed and laughed. “Tastes alright.” He sat back in his chair. “What’s up then, Sarge?”

  “You can call me Dennis here.” The two of them had worked together for over ten years. They’d moved over from Uniform to CID at the same time, Dennis as a sergeant and Johnny as a constable.

  “How’s things at home?” Dennis asked. “How’s Alice doing?”

  Johnny smiled. “She’s huge.”

  “When is she due?”

  “September. Little boy.”

  Dennis smiled. “That’s nice. Give her my best.”

  “Will do, Sarge – sorry, Dennis. How’s Pam?”

  “She’s grand.”

  “She always is grand,” said Johnny. “According to you.”

  Dennis gave him a look. “That’s because my wife is a magnificent woman. Don’t you dare criticise her.”

  Johnny raised his hands in supplication. “I never would.” He took another bite of his fish finger sandwich and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

  Dennis eyed his cheese and tomato sandwich. Despite the thick hunks of white bread, significantly more expensive than the white sliced Pam bought, it was plain and tasteless.

  “So what’s this about?” asked Johnny.

  “I wanted to run something past you.” Dennis leaned over the table. “Just you and me.”

  Johnny nodded. “Of course. Is it to do with the case?”

  “It is. You know the Steven Leonard case, the one the DCI reckons Harry Nevin is hiding from us?”

  “I do,” said Johnny. “The one Tina found.”

  Dennis grunted. “He used to work for Arthur Kelvin.”

  “Who did?” said Johnny.

  “Steven Leonard did.”

  “The same Arthur Kelvin who...?”

  “How many Arthur Kelvins do you know?” said Dennis.

  Johnny shrugged. He wiped his hands on his trousers, making Dennis wince.

  “He was working in Kelvin’s scrap metal yard,” continued Dennis, “when he had his first arrest. Kelvin stood up for him, gave him a character reference.”

  Johnny stifled a laugh. “A character reference from Arthur Kelvin?”

  “He was masquerading as a respectable business owner. Still is.”

  Johnny rolled his eyes. They both knew what kind of man Arthur Kelvin was. But they also both knew how he presented himself and how his expensive lawyers had been able to keep him from getting into trouble. So far.

  “You think the Kelvins might be connected to all of this?” Johnny asked.

  Dennis glanced around the pub, his skin tingling. “Keep your voice down, son.”

  “Sorry, Sarge.”

  Dennis scratched his chin. He’d missed a bit shaving. Right in the centre, on the bottom of his chin.

  “No,” he said. “I don’t think he’s connected to all this. But I do think we need to watch our backs.”

  Johnny’s face darkened. “After what happened with…?”

  Dennis put his hand on the table. “We don’t talk about that. Do we?”

  “Sorry,” muttered Johnny. He pushed his plate away and picked up his glass. He took a long swig, his eyes roaming the pub. Finally, he put his glass down.

  “Have you told the DCI about this?”

  Dennis shook his head. “She doesn’t need to know. It’s not relevant.”

  “So why’d you tell me?”

  “I had to talk to somebody about it.” Dennis flinched, irritated at having to explain himself. “I just wanted you to know.”

  Johnny nodded, looking at his watch. “We’d better…”

  Dennis put a hand on his arm. “If this does blow up in our faces, we need to be prepared.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The CSIs worked out of a draughty office on the edge of Dorchester. Lesley sat beside Gail, shivering despite the heat outside, watching the crime scene manager scroll through photos on her computer.

  They’d enhanced the photo of the man’s hand from Ameena’s camera, and a signet ring was clearly visible. Lesley leaned in to peer at it. It was silver with a square top and visible scratches. There was an engraving, blurred in the photo. The hand it sat on was white, with a few knuckle hairs and wrinkles. So this man was powerful enough to push Ameena off the cliff, but not young enough to have smooth hands.

  Lesley turned to Gail. “Can we get prints off this?”

  Gail shook her head. “It shows the back of the hand. Although skin on the back of the hand can have distinguishing marks, there’s nothing useful here.”

  Lesley twisted her lips. “And this is the only photo we’ve got of his hand?”

  “If we had another one, I’d have shown it to you.”

  Still, at least they had the ring.

  “Have you got any idea where it came from?” Lesley asked, pointing at it.

  Gail shrugged. “Brett’s got a theory it’s from a local jeweller. There aren’t too many that sell rings like that round here. Plenty that sell ones with minerals in. Amethysts, opals, that kind of thing. The whole Jurassic Coast shtick. But most of those are for women. There aren’t so many local jewellers selling men’s rings.”

  Lesley eyed it, wishing she could make out that engraving. “He might have bought it online. He might have bought it in a shop outside the area.”

  “It’s worth taking a look,” said Gail. “Maybe get one of your guys to check out the local jewellers.”

  Lesley nodded. “We’ll start closest to the crime sce
ne, in Swanage. There are a few jewellers in Corfe Castle. Then we’ll look at Bournemouth and Poole.”

  “That could be quite a few businesses,” said Gail.

  “I have no idea how many jewellers there are in this county,” Lesley replied. “But I’m hoping that there are only a few that sell rings like that.”

  “And that can remember who bought it,” added Gail.

  Lesley pointed at the photo. “Is that expensive?”

  Gail shook her head. “Brett reckons a hundred, two hundred pounds. Nothing to write home about.”

  “Enough for them to keep receipts, though,” said Lesley. “It’s worth a go. I’ll get one of the team to follow it up.”

  Her phone rang. “DCI Clarke.”

  “Boss. It’s Mike.”

  “Mike, I’ve got another job for you,” she said.

  “Oh, OK. I’ve got a name for you, though.”

  “The guy at Sam Chaston’s house?”

  “His name’s Danny Rogers, lives in Ringwood.”

  “How far is that?” asked Lesley. She’d driven past Ringwood in Hampshire when she first moved down from the West Midlands. She had a memory of sitting in traffic for at least Ann hour after that.

  “It’s nothing,” said Mike. “Twenty minutes to Bournemouth down the A338.”

  Lesley leaned back in her chair. Was this connected to the murder?

  “Maybe he’s her boyfriend?” Mike suggested.

  She shook her head. “She didn’t look at him like he was her boyfriend. She looked at him like she was scared.”

  “Ex-boyfriend, then?”

  “Possibly.”

  One of Gail’s colleagues approached Lesley, indicating that he needed to speak to Gail. It was the tall one with the shaggy hair. Lesley shuffled back in her chair and let him pass. He stooped to talk with Gail, their voices low. Lesley tried to listen in while at the same time speaking to Mike.

  “Has Rogers got a record?” she asked him.

  “Affray, three years ago.”

  “No domestics?”

  “You’re thinking maybe he is her ex?”

  “Probably not, but we can’t discount it. Can you double check his file? Make sure there haven’t been any reports from his address, or Sam’s. And I want to talk to him.”

  As Mike read out an address in Ringwood, Lesley had a thought. “Where does he work?”

  “One moment.”

  Gail’s colleague straightened up. He gave Lesley a nod as he squeezed past her and moved back to his own desk.

  “I’ve got his workplace,” said Mike. “It’s a car body shop in Christchurch.”

  Good, Lesley thought. A bit closer to home. She glanced at Gail’s screen.

  Mike read out the address. “Can you text it to me?” she asked him. “I’ll put it in the satnav.”

  She was using her satnav a lot lately. She wondered if the roads would ever become truly familiar. Probably just at the point where her assignment ended and she was sent back to Birmingham.

  “Before you go, Mike, I’ve got an image I’d like you to have a look at. Do you know any local jewellers that sell men’s rings?”

  “Sorry.”

  Lesley was sure she’d seen Mike wearing a ring on his right hand.

  “I’ll send it to you anyway. Tell me if you’ve got any idea where it might have been bought.”

  She nodded at Gail, who clicked her mouse a few times.

  “Have you got it?” Lesley asked Mike.

  “Just opening it.”

  “There’s a photo attached,” she told him. “Take a look at that ring.”

  There was a pause while he opened the email and surveyed the photo.

  “Any thoughts?” she asked. “Any jewellers who sell that sort of thing?”

  “No, boss. But I think I’ve seen it before.”

  She felt her skin tingle. “Where?”

  “I’m not sure.” His voice dropped.

  “Mike, you still there?”

  “Hang on a minute.”

  She heard movement at the other end of the phone. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going into your office. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Why are you going into my office?”

  “I want to look at the board.”

  Gail’s eyes were on Lesley. Lesley shrugged at the CSM. “You’ve seen it on somebody whose photo is on the board?” she asked Mike.

  “I just want to check.”

  “OK.” She could feel her chest tightening. She glanced at Gail, who was watching her face.

  After a few moments, Mike came back on the line, out of breath. “I was right, boss.”

  “Right about what?” Lesley pulled herself upright.

  “I have seen this ring before.”

  “On who?” Lesley raked her fingernails across the desk, aware of Gail’s gaze on her.

  “Nevin,” Mike replied. “I’ve seen it on Harry Nevin.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Lesley looked back into Gail’s expectant face as she waited for the phone to be answered. Gail stared back at her, her nostrils flaring. Lesley drummed her fingers on the desk.

  “Come on,” she said. She knew he was there, she’d spoken to his secretary. Why wasn’t he answering her call?

  At last the phone was picked up. “Detective Superintendent Carpenter.”

  “Sir, it’s DCI Clarke.”

  “Lesley. You have progress to update me on?”

  “Yes, Sir. We have a suspect.”

  “Already? Good work. Who?”

  “Harry Nevin, Sir. He’s a senior partner in the law firm where our victim worked.”

  “And on what basis is he your suspect?”

  “We’ve got a photo from her phone, a man’s hand. The man in the photo is wearing a ring that matches one Mike saw on Nevin’s hand when we went to interview him.”

  “Hmm.”

  Silence.

  Gail mouthed something, Lesley couldn’t tell what. She shook her head and looked away. Gail’s nerves were adding to her own unease. If Elsa was working with a murderer…

  They couldn’t afford to wait. They had to go and get Nevin now.

  Carpenter came back on the line. “Have you got anything else, apart from this ring?”

  “He was acting suspiciously when I went to interview him. He said he would hand over files relating to the victim’s current cases, but he missed one. He deliberately withheld information from the investigation.”

  “That’s not murder, Lesley.”

  “I know, Sir. But this ring…”

  “It’s not enough, Inspector. You need more.”

  She sighed. She’d been expecting this. “I’d like to go and interview him.”

  “That’s fair enough,” he said. “But try not to rouse his suspicions. Harry Nevin is a respected member of the Bournemouth legal community. He’ll know what you’re up to as soon as you walk through that door.”

  She nodded. Harry Nevin might be clever. She was cleverer.

  “I’ll speak to him, Sir. I’ll tell you how I get on.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Dennis arrived back in the office, Johnny in tow behind him. Johnny belched quietly as he sat down. Dennis gave him a disapproving look.

  “Sorry, Sarge.” Johnny stood up. “Coffee, anyone?”

  Dennis grunted. “Milk, no sugar.”

  Mike shook his head. “We’ve got a development, Sarge.”

  Dennis peeled off his jacket and hung it over his chair. “Yes?”

  “Harry Nevin,” Mike said. “He’s the man in the photograph.”

  “What photograph?” Dennis asked.

  Mike beckoned him over. Dennis bent over Mike’s desk and looked at the photograph on the DC’s screen.

  “Ameena Khan took this just before she died. Well, I don’t think she took it as such, her camera took it automatically. There were a whole bunch of photos, this was the last one.”

  “It’s a man’s hand,” said Denn
is.

  Mike nodded. “That ring. I was sure I’d seen it before. I checked the board, I looked at some of the photos we’ve got of Nevin. He’s got a ring exactly like it.”

  Dennis eyed him. “Good work. But it’s not enough to charge the man with murder.”

  Mike’s shoulders slumped. “It’s enough to be suspicious of him, surely. The DCI is calling the Super right now.”

  “She is, is she?” Dennis straightened up. “That’s not like her.”

  Lesley had made her approach to policing clear when she joined the team. Thoroughness, procedure, building a case. She didn’t like to alert a suspect until she was confident the CPS would agree to prosecute and a jury would find him guilty.

  “Why is she talking to the Super?” he asked. “She’s got nothing, it’s just a ring.”

  Mike shrugged. “She spoke to Nevin. Maybe she thinks there’s more to it?”

  “I spoke to him too,” Dennis said. “The man was obstructive. But he’s a criminal lawyer, what do you expect?”

  Dennis’s phone rang: Lesley.

  “Boss, what’s happening? Mike tells me you’ve got a link to Harry Nevin.”

  “It’s not enough to arrest him yet, but it’s enough to want to speak to him again. Possibly under caution, although I’d rather not. We need to know if he’s got an alibi for Sunday morning.”

  Dennis glanced at Mike. This was more like the DCI. It wasn’t like her to go galloping off on a case without solid evidence.

  “What do you need me to do, boss?” he asked.

  “I’m going to Nevin, Cross and Short,” she said. “It’s half past six, Nevin should still be there. But he’s the boss, he might have left. So I want you to go to his home address. See if you can speak to him.”

  “You want me to wait for you?” Dennis asked.

  “No,” she said. “We can’t afford to wait. Go straight there, find out where he was when Ameena Khan died. Get backup for his story, speak to his wife if he’s got one. Family, anybody who can corroborate.”

  “Right, boss.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Lesley parked on the double yellows outside Nevin, Cross and Short. She didn’t care now if she got a ticket. This was official police business and she was in a hurry. She ran through the pedestrianised area outside the office and leaned on the buzzer. It rang out, a long tone that she hoped would echo in the offices beyond. She waited. No answer.