“I know how awkward it is,” she said to Mike. “Senior investigating officer providing an alibi for a potential suspect.”
He shrugged. “It is what it is.”
“That’s one way of putting it.” She wasn’t looking forward to explaining herself to Carpenter if it came to it. She smiled. “See you in the morning, Mike.”
“Yes, boss.” He closed the door.
Lesley hauled herself up and paced around her desk a couple of times. She was tired and restless. She wanted to move and she wanted to sleep both at the same time. But mostly, she wanted to talk to Elsa. She wanted to tell her what had happened today. She wanted to apologise.
She picked up her phone. It rang out three times.
Lesley drummed her fingers on the desk. “Pick up, please.” She hoped Elsa wasn’t avoiding her calls.
It clicked over to voicemail.
“Hi Els, it’s me. I just wanted to say sorry. Call me back, please?”
She put the phone down on the desk and surveyed the office. That conversation with Mike about going home to a microwave dinner and a night in front of the telly hadn’t been far off. Tonight, she wasn’t in the mood for her pokey cottage.
She’d been in a meeting room on the second floor a couple of days ago, a sofa against one of the walls. Could she get away with sleeping on it? Spending the night here at the office?
She shook her head. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
She grabbed her suit jacket and pulled it over her shoulders. Time to go home.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Elsa approached the building at the address she’d been given. She could see the beach beyond, around the side of the house. A couple walked past her, leaning into each other. It was beginning to get dark and the beach would be quiet, holidaymakers gone for the evening. She could hear the waves beyond the house.
She approached the front door and pressed the buzzer. After a few moments, a voice came over the intercom.
“Can I help you?”
She leaned in, lowering her voice. “It’s Elsa Short.”
“One moment.”
She put her hand on the wall by the door, waiting. After a few moments, it opened and a woman stood in the doorway. She was short, with blonde-grey hair, wearing a suit. She looked businesslike and professional. Elsa didn’t recognise her.
“Ms Short?” she asked.
Elsa nodded.
The woman stood back. “Come on in, we won’t keep you long.”
“Who are you?” Elsa asked.
“Just the help.”
Elsa looked the woman up and down. She didn’t look like the help; that suit was expensive. Still, a person with the money to own a property like this would hire expensive help.
The woman gestured for Elsa to go ahead, up a flight of stairs. At the top was a long hallway with views over the beach beyond. The woman passed her and opened a set of double doors into a vast living room. Elsa followed her inside and, drawn to the view, approached the windows at the back.
As she’d expected, the beach was quiet. An elderly couple walked their dog along the shore front and a solitary man strolled past them. The three people slowed to greet each other and then continued walking. Other than that, the beach was empty.
Elsa turned back to the woman. “How long will...” she began.
The room was empty.
Elsa shrugged and lowered herself into a plush sofa. It was vast, upholstered with cream velvet. She stared out at the view. Her own flat was three streets back from the beach front in Bournemouth. If she hung her head out of the bathroom window and squinted, she could just about catch a glimpse of sea. But here, it was the main event.
She walked back to the window, resisting the urge to place her fingertips on it. The glass was pristine, shiny. The couple walking their dog was still there, the dog playing in the shallows. Elsa watched them, wondering if they could see inside, or if the window had some kind of two-way glass.
After a few moments, she returned to the sofa. She checked her watch: she’d been here twenty minutes. That was longer than it had taken her to get here. She crossed the room to the double doors. They were locked.
Elsa knocked. “Hello?”
No response.
She knocked again, harder this time. “I’ve been waiting twenty minutes. What’s happening?”
She knew better than to lose her temper. Kelvin liked to keep people waiting. This wasn’t his home address, but he owned plenty of residential properties. He’d never invited her to one, though. They’d met in neutral spaces: nightclubs, bars, restaurants. Business properties, not personal ones.
She took a step back, surveying the doors. She looked around the room. There was a door at the far end. Beyond it was an empty bedroom, a vast bed dominating the space. She closed the door and returned to the main doors.
She hammered again. “Hello?”
She went back to the sofa and plonked herself down on it.
She shouldn’t have responded to that email. She could have pretended she’d left the office already, that she hadn’t received it.
Now here she was, shut in for God knew how long.
She pulled her phone out of her pocket.
But who would she call? Certainly not Lesley. Not Harry, not anymore.
Aurelia, maybe? No. The message said not to tell Aurelia where she was going.
She sighed. What did she expect, responding to an invitation like this? She would just have to wait and see what happened.
She leaned back in the sofa, kicking off her shoes and curling her feet underneath her. If she was in for a long wait, she might as well make herself comfortable.
Chapter Sixty-Four
Lesley pushed aside the mouldy carrot and sour milk in her fridge. Somewhere at the back of it was the remains of a Chinese takeaway from four nights ago. Sweet and sour pork, rice and prawn crackers.
She pulled it out and placed the cartons on the worktop. The crackers were soggy; she probably shouldn’t have put them in the fridge. She opened the door of the microwave and pushed the other cartons inside.
She wandered out of the kitchen while she waited, rolling her head to stretch her neck. She approached the sofa, about to sit down, when her phone pinged. She hoped it was Sharon, they hadn’t spoken in a few days and she wanted to check how her daughter’s English exam had gone.
It wasn’t Sharon, but a voicemail notification from an hour earlier, while she’d been driving.
It was Elsa, her voice clipped.
“I got your message. What you said, it cut deep. I can’t believe you’d think me capable of murder, Lesley.”
Lesley’s shoulders drooped.
She should never have said what she had. Even if she did suspect Elsa of being involved in these crimes, confronting her with it like that was a bad move.
The message continued.
“Don’t call me. I need some time on my own.”
The message ended.
The microwave pinged and Lesley ignored it.
She slumped onto the sofa. Her limbs felt heavy. She needed sleep but still hadn’t got used to the lumpy bed here.
She sighed and stood up.
There was an ugly mahogany chest in the corner of the living room, with a few things inside it that had belonged to the previous tenant. She opened the doors and rooted around inside it.
Perfect. She’d remembered correctly.
She pulled out the more-than-half-empty bottle of whisky from the back. She opened it and shuffled into the kitchen to grab a glass.
She poured herself a generous measure: she needed this.
Chapter Sixty-Five
An hour and a half had passed, and no one had arrived.
Elsa sat on the sofa, staring out at the gloom beyond the windows. What the hell was going on?
She went to the doors for what felt like the hundredth time and tugged at them. Again, for the hundredth time, they didn’t give.
Back at the patio doors, she tried to slide
them open. They too were locked.
Did this flat belong to Kelvin? She’d expected him to have a large house, the man had plenty of money. But in Sandbanks, even a flat cost a small fortune.
The room bore no sign of ownership. Family photos, heirlooms, trinkets: nothing. This place was cold, like it belonged to no one. Maybe it was a holiday home.
She returned to the bedroom she’d investigated earlier and pushed on the window. Locked. In the ensuite bathroom she found a generous shower tiled in marble and a high window above the toilet. That too was locked.
She left the bedroom, her heart rate picking up. There was another door, another bedroom, another vast bed, another ensuite with marble tiles. In both bathrooms, expensive hand wash and body lotion sat on the sink, barely used. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that this wasn’t anyone’s home.
Idiot. Why hadn’t she ignored the email? Why hadn’t she told someone where she was going?
Elsa hurried back into the living room and took her phone from the pocket of her jacket, which she’d folded neatly on the sofa. Speaking to Aurelia Cross didn’t appeal, the woman had been frosty in recent days.
Reluctantly, she dialled Lesley. After three rings, it flicked onto voicemail. She hung up.
After the previous message she’d left, she didn’t want to leave a second one. She sank onto the sofa, scratching her forehead. Her eczema was flaring up. She stood again, agitated, unable to sit still now despite having sat in that sofa for over an hour. Through the window, she could only just make out the shadows of waves out to sea, no detail on the beach itself. There could be a crowd of people out there watching her and she would never know.
She went back into the first ensuite bathroom and used the toilet. She returned to the bedroom. Outside was quiet. A few cars parked behind her own, no one walking along the harbour.
In the living room, a tray sat on the glass-topped coffee table in front of the cream sofa.
That hadn’t been there before.
Elsa ran towards the doors. She pulled at the handle, but it was still locked. The tray held a pot of tea, a single cup and saucer and a milk jug, and a plate of sandwiches.
Sandwiches? Who locked a person in their flat and provided sandwiches? Whoever it was, they must have known she’d gone to the toilet.
Cameras.
Elsa looked up, scanning the walls. No sign of them. She shuddered and huddled back on the sofa.
The teapot was warm. It, along with the cup and saucer, was made of delicate china. Expensive. She poured a cup of tea, thirst catching up with her. Hunger, too. It had been twenty-four hours since she’d eaten.
She looked back at the doors, half-expecting somebody to appear, to watch her eat. There was no one. She looked back at the sandwiches, stared at them for a moment, then ate it greedily.
Chapter Sixty-Six
Lesley was woken by her phone vibrating on the coffee table. It buzzed at her, slid across the surface and fell onto the rug with a thud.
She eased herself up from her slumped position on the sofa. Had she fallen asleep here last night? She was too old for this. She put her fingers to her forehead and winced. Her head felt heavy and thick, and her stomach was auditioning for the next season of Strictly Come Dancing.
Lesley pulled herself up, head drumming. At least the phone had stopped shrieking at her.
She squinted at the empty whisky bottle on the table. How much had been in there? More than she’d thought. Or maybe it was the fact she hadn’t eaten, or that she was just too old for whisky. She’d guzzled plenty of the stuff as a student, almost thirty years ago. She’d been able to hold ten measures of it and make morning lectures. But now…
What time was it? She squinted at the clock on the mantelpiece. Half past seven. Time for a quick shower. But no, she’d arranged to meet Dennis. Where?
Her phone rang and she glared at it.
“Shut up.”
It screeched in her head. She leaned over and pulled it up from the floor. It would be Dennis, wondering where she was.
“DCI Clarke.” Her voice was scratchy.
“Lesley, sorry to bother you so early. It’s Zoe.”
Lesley closed her eyes and prodded her forehead. “Zoe?”
She pulled the phone away from her ear and looked at it. She’d been hoping for a call from Elsa. There was a missed call. Last night, about nine o’clock.
Had she picked up? Had she spoken to Elsa?
No, she wasn’t so drunk she’d forget that.
She put the phone back to her ear. “What is it, Zoe?”
“Are you OK?” Zoe asked. “You sound different.”
Lesley grunted out a laugh and then instantly regretted it. She sat back on the sofa, trying to get comfortable.
“I’m fine,” she said. “All my own fault. What have you got for me?”
It must be urgent if Zoe was ringing her so early.
“I’m sending you an email,” Zoe said. “A photo.”
“Hang on.” Lesley switched the phone to speaker mode. She opened up her email. Right at the top was an email from Zoe with an attachment.
“Shit.”
“Am I right in thinking that’s the Bournemouth equivalent of Trevor Hamm?” Zoe asked.
Trevor Hamm was a man Lesley and Zoe had targeted in West Midlands Force CID. He was a shitty little man, an organised crime boss who liked to let his minions take the fall for his own crimes.
“Something like that,” Lesley replied. “Thanks.”
She eyed the photo. Had she been expecting this, or not?
“No problem,” Zoe hung up.
Lesley stared at the photo. She didn’t need this. Not today, with a hangover and what she’d said to Elsa and – oh, shit – outing herself at work. She would have to speak to Carpenter. He needed to know she was in a relationship with a person of interest in a case. If she still was.
Did she need to tell Carpenter about this photo, too?
She’d park that one until the case was over.
She pinched her finger and thumb to zoom in on the photo. Smiling out at her were two men, their hands clasped together.
On the left, Arthur Kelvin. As Zoe had suggested, the Bournemouth version of Trevor Hamm.
And on the right, her predecessor, DCI Mackie.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Elsa woke to find light seeping around the edge of blackout curtains. She yawned and stretched, wondering if she’d overslept, then sat up in bed, blinking.
This wasn’t her room. She was lying in a vast bed, in a pale room thinly lit by the sunlight from around those curtains.
She slid out of bed and opened the curtains. In front of her was a view over a street, her own car parked opposite. Seagulls attacked a rubbish bin just along from it, and a man was walking his dog below her. She hammered on the window, but he didn’t react.
She turned back to the room. She’d eventually given up on anybody turning up at around midnight, and had decided to get what sleep she could. She’d slept fitfully, worried that someone might be watching her.
She went to the mirror over a dressing table and straightened her hair. Mascara had pooled under her eyes; she rubbed at it. Behind her was one of the ensuite bathrooms. She considered taking a shower, but that felt too vulnerable.
Elsa jumped at a sound from behind her. It was beyond the door to the main living room. Breathing heavily, she gave her hair a final pat down and strode to the door, attempting to put as much confidence into her stride as she could.
Arthur Kelvin would be on the other side. Elsa was ready for him; she’d met him half a dozen times and was learning how to manage the man.
Instead, a woman stood in the double doorway leading to the hallway. It wasn’t the woman who’d greeted her last night. This woman was tall and dark-skinned with thick wavy hair that reminded Elsa of her own. In front of her were two squat, light-haired dogs. They strained on short leashes. Elsa eyed them, then looked at the woman.
&
nbsp; “Who are you?”
The woman smiled. She wore bright purple lipstick and her eyes were heavily mascaraed. “You don’t need to know that.” She looked down at the dogs. “Stop it, Bruno.”
One of the dogs pulled at the leash, growling under its breath. The woman smiled down at the dogs and then up at Elsa again.
“This is Bruno and Izzy, my babies. They’re very protective of me.”
Elsa nodded. Her skin prickled.
The dogs’ eyes were on her. The growling had stopped but somehow that made them more menacing. The woman gestured towards the sofa by the window.
“Sit down,” she said. “We need to talk.”
Elsa shook her head. “You’ve illegally imprisoned me,” she said. “You can’t possibly expect me to want to chat.”
The woman shrugged. “Try and get past me.”
Elsa looked over the woman’s shoulder into the hallway beyond. The woman and her dogs blocked the way.
The woman loosened one of the leads a little. The dog lurched forwards. Elsa took a step back, hitting a bookcase behind her.
“Like I say,” said the woman. “Sit down.” She nodded towards the sofa.
Her voice was smooth, with a home counties accent. It didn’t sit well with the sight of her holding those dogs. Elsa didn’t know much about dogs, but she was pretty sure they were the type that had been illegal at some point, or at least should have been. They were squat and heavy, and looked like they’d go for her neck given half a chance.
She skirted around the edge of the room, keeping away from the woman and the dogs. She lowered herself to the sofa and turned to face the woman, her hands in her lap.
Damn. She’d left her jacket in the bedroom, draped over the bed. Her phone was in the inside pocket.
The woman closed the door and tied the leashes to a hook next to it. One of the dogs licked her hand and whimpered. She gave it a slap. Elsa flinched.
“Good,” the woman said. She approached an easy chair at right angle to the sofa and sat down.
The Clifftop Murders (Dorset Crime Book 2) Page 20