"Are we at war?"
"I'd be surprised if you weren't angry with me."
"Bloody livid," he said, sipping at his drink.
Tamara inclined her head, exaggerating a grimace. "You do livid… in an understated manner."
The comment thawed the atmosphere. She had her reasons for doing what she did. Now he had to understand them.
"I'll cut to the chase," she said. "We have two witnesses who can place Alice at the scene."
"Yes, you said as much last night," Tom said, pulling a chair from the side of the room and sitting down, leaving his own for her. "Are they credible?"
"I shouldn't be sharing any of this with you, Tom. You understand that, right?"
"I'll be discrete."
Tamara accepted his word, sitting down across from him. "They are credible. As far as we know they have no connection with the deceased aside from living and working nearby. Both of them know Alice, recognising both her and Saffy. A car matching hers was also there for much of the afternoon on the day he was killed. I held off until I had no choice but to bring her in. Did you know she was there?"
"No, of course I didn't."
"Okay. What was she doing there?"
Tom shrugged, trying to think through the possibilities. "They have a shared history, a child. They're going to spend time together."
"All afternoon?"
He was rocked by the revelation, although he tried hard not to show it. Tamara was attentive. Did she see how thrown he was. Casting his mind back to when he got home from work that night, the night before Gage was found dead, Alice had just come out of the shower. He thought she was washing off the dirt of her working day. He was surprised to find Saffy was at her grandmother's. Their exchange felt odd at the time but he couldn't understand why.
"Tom?"
He looked up. "Sorry. What did you say?"
"Apparently she'd been crying. Any idea why that might be?"
"You should probably be asking Alice rather than me, don't you think?"
"I did," she said, glancing away and out of the window. "I'm not going to sugar coat this for you, Tom. Alice isn't helping herself."
He chose not to comment. Besides, what could he say? It was news to him that Alice had seen her ex-husband that day. He was angry at her now. He still couldn't entertain the idea she had anything to do with his death but, evidently, she chose not to mention the visit. Why would she do that? Was she afraid of how he might react?
"The second witness, the one who saw her leaving the house," Tamara said. Tom looked up. "He… says he's seen Alice there a number of times recently—"
"To pick up and drop off Saf—"
"On several occasions without her daughter."
A wave of emotion passed over him. It was the strangest sensation; one he wouldn't be able to describe.
"What are you saying?"
"I'm not saying anything, Tom. We have a warrant to sequester Alice's telephone records and will also be contacting her employer to ascertain her work schedule. She lied to me about where she was when Adrian Gage was murdered, Tom." He met her eye. "The thing is, if she didn't kill him, why the lie?"
"You have more, don't you?"
Tamara sat forward, placing her elbows on the table and forming a tent with her fingers before her mouth. "Trace evidence was present under the victim's fingernails."
Tom felt a pang in his chest.
"Fibres, not skin cells. We took a number of items from Alice's… from your home," she said steadily. "You know how this works. The lab will try to match those fibres to clothing owned and worn by the suspect. Did Alice happen to be wearing a blue jumper—"
"On the day Gage was stabbed?" he asked. Tamara nodded. He could answer that question. "I don't know what she was wearing." Tamara's eyes narrowed. "Honestly. She was getting out of the shower when I got home."
Tamara made a note. "And what time was that?" She looked up, sensing his reticence. "Tom? What time was that?"
"Six-thirty, seven… something like that. I didn't realise I'd be needing to give a statement."
Tamara put her pen down. "I'm sorry, Tom. Off the record… maybe you should take a moment to consider what you should do next."
"How do you mean?"
"Maybe consider whether now is a good time to put a bit of space between yourself and Alice."
"Are you serious?"
"I'm speaking as a friend, not as your boss. It might be better for her as well."
"How do you figure that?"
"The evidence is leading to her door, and if she's going to be cleared of any involvement, then the perception has to be right."
"I would never risk prejudicing the investigation—"
Tamara shook her head, holding up both hands to ask him to slow down. "And I'm not saying you would, but it's perception. If Alice has done nothing wrong, and there may well be a simple explanation to cover all of this, then she'll be cleared. It just wouldn't look good for our chief sus—" She stopped herself from finishing the comment, instead placing her palms flat on the desk. "It won't look good, her living with a senior detective working out of this station—"
"When she's cleared," Tom said. "True."
He stood up, making a beeline for the door.
"Tom. You know I have no choice but to play it this way." He stopped with one hand on the door, turning back to face her. "You would have played it exactly the same way and deep down you know it."
"Did you find the murder weapon, either in the house or nearby?"
Tamara picked up her coffee and sipped at it. "No. We think it might have been a knife from the kitchen. Suggestive of an impulsive action rather than a premeditated act."
He nodded, drumming his fingers on the door jamb, and left without another word. He caught her watching him as he crossed the ops room.
"Eric. Come on," he said, striding towards the door. The detective constable jumped out of his seat. "We have to swing by the pathologist's office and then go to see a man about a planning application."
Chapter Eighteen
The skies were clearing now which was often the way on the north Norfolk coast. The day starts off with a hint of promise but one that can swiftly be forgotten depending on the prevailing winds. When they reached the pathologist's office, the mist was burning off and retreating from the coastline. Now, nearing the middle of the day, heading for the registered address of Daniel Crowe, the sun was sitting high and the warmth of early summer made its presence known.
The same could not be said for the pathologist's laboratory. Dr Tim Paxton was busy, summoning them to the morgue rather than his office. For obvious reasons the rooms were kept at a cool temperature, despite the cadavers being stored in refrigeration chambers. The more he thought about Dr Paxton's analysis of Mary Beckett, he couldn't help but think the information given was more pertinent than he currently realised. But not because of the cause of death.
"The victim suffered a brain haemorrhage, undoubtedly resulting from the rather obvious blow to the head," Dr Paxton said, reading from his notes and peering over the rim of his glasses at Tom. "My x-rays show evidence of only a single blow to the left temporal bone, located to the side of the head which caused the depressed fracture."
He passed a clipboard to Tom, folding over the sheet at the top so he could see a photocopy of a generic human skull. The doctor had marked where the wound could be found. The impact point was almost directly vertical from the end of the jawbone.
"Any idea of the weapon used?"
Paxton's brow furrowed. "Hard to say. Blunt object, smooth. Weighty I should imagine."
"But she was definitely attacked?" Tom asked. "Or could this have been an injury caused by a fall. I know her age but I'm unsure whether she was frail."
"I wouldn't think so, no. The impact point, had she fallen, would be less specific. The injury would also be more spread out, unless of course she fell against the edge of a table or wash basin perhaps. I think someone killed her. Death might not have been inst
antaneous. There's a good chance the internal bleeding took a while to see her off but she certainly would have lost consciousness almost immediately from the blow. And she saw it coming."
"What makes you say that?"
"Where she was struck, the angle of the blow." Dr Paxton reached over and pulled Eric in front of him, using him as a prop in his demonstration. Eric didn't seem pleased but didn't resist. Paxton then stood in front of him. "I think the attacker was right-handed. You can see that if I reach out for something and swing it forward." He picked up an empty coffee mug from the table and swung it as if he was aiming a blow at Eric's head. Eric flinched but Paxton withdrew the motion before he connected. "You'll see the hairline fractures that emanate from the impact point," he said, pointing to an x-ray in the file. Tom looked closer. "The way they radiate out is indicative of such a strike. I think the attacker was a similar height to the victim, perhaps shorter, or raised their arm from a lower position, hence why I think it may have been an odd choice of weapon."
"Odd choice?"
"Whatever was at hand. If it was picked up off the table or the floor, it might explain the angle of the impact. In my experience, if someone plans an attack they are usually prepared with a weapon, a bat, or a cosh, and they will strike down from above ensuring a proper swing with their weight behind it. In this case, I think the blow came up and across."
"Instinctive perhaps," Tom said. Dr Paxton agreed. Eric was excused and stepped away, dusting himself off, an action signifying his discomfort at playing a role rather than to clean anything away.
"You said you were waiting on something?" Tom asked.
"Yes, her medical records," Paxton said, taking the clipboard back. He skipped several pages until reaching what he was looking for. "I noted during the autopsy a number of swollen areas in the victim's body. Initially I located areas on the joints of both knees and in the elbows, a cluster on her right wrist. She was a slight lady and they stood out. At first, I figured that with her age she was suffering from arthritis but as soon as I carried out a full body scan it was clearly more serious than that. I needed the medical records in order to determine how advanced and, therefore, how much impact the condition would have had on her in day-to-day life."
"What was it?"
"Bone cancer. The full body scan showed up more than I found with a visual inspection. She had tumours in her spine, arms, legs and pelvis," Dr Paxton said, frowning. "She'd clearly been suffering for quite some time."
"Terminal?"
"All life ends, Inspector. There are only so many beats in a heart and when they're used up things reach a natural conclusion. By all measures I could see, she did very well. I chatted with an oncologist friend of mine, more of a general discussion than the specifics of Mrs Beckett's case. The five-year survival rate for both adults and children is roughly seventy percent. Mary Beckett was diagnosed thirteen years ago. As I said, particularly in light of her age she was doing remarkably well. She must have been suffering."
Tom didn't recall the family mentioning a battle with cancer. "Forgive me, but I'm not knowledgeable about bone cancer. How does it manifest?"
"Like most other cancers, in any number of ways depending on how aggressive it is and whether it's spread. Tumours can form anywhere in the body, most notably in the joints. Tumours will form and release too much calcium into the bloodstream, worst case scenario causing unconsciousness and perhaps death, or the bones themselves could become fragile and break, never to heal. That's not to dismiss the everyday aches and pains cancer in this form brings. This could be mild in the form of sharp or dull aches in the arms, legs or pelvis, through to excruciating pain which would be incredibly debilitating."
Tom had a thought, remembering his conversation with her family. "Did you find any sign of dementia?"
Dr Paxton's brow furrowed. "No, I didn't. Why do you ask?"
"It ran in the family, apparently. There was a suggestion of schizophrenia on one side of the family as well."
"Curious. I suppose it can be genetic. One could build a case for it." Dr Paxton crossed to a side table and opened a folder, flicking through some papers. He lifted a sheet out and tapped at it with his forefinger, returning and handing it to Tom. "There are several notes here from her GP where she visited the practice seeking information and advice relating to dementia. But nothing more. On the second appointment she took a cognitive test, pretty standard in such cases, followed up with a blood test to see if there were any other conditions that might cause the symptoms." He scanned down through the file, locating the results. "Yes. Here it is. Blood tests returned normal for liver, kidney, thyroid… yes, all good. And she passed the cognitive test as well."
"When was that?"
Dr Paxton checked. "Two years ago."
The passing landscape fizzed by and he pushed the conversation with the pathologist aside. Something was piquing his curiosity but he couldn't quite pinpoint what or why. He glanced across at Eric, two hands on the steering wheel and maintaining eye contact on the road in front at all times, keeping to a steady fifty-five miles per hour. Eric wasn't his usual chatty self and Tom knew why.
"I know what's on your mind, Eric, but please don't fret about it."
Eric glanced his way and then back to the road. The comment broke the ice on the subject but the young DC looked more uncomfortable as a result.
"I'm sorry about… you know, Alice and—"
"Thanks, Eric. It's nice of you to say so."
Eric smiled awkwardly, tilting his head as he made to speak but seemed to think better of it and ended up stumbling his response. "Just so you know, I don't believe she did it. Alice. She's not the type in my mind."
"In your mind?" Tom asked, reading the unsaid in between the lines. Perhaps she was in someone else's?
"Oh… yes… well, I mean that I know her. And she's not capable of it."
"It's okay, Eric. Things just have to run their course. It's the way it is." He was keen to put him out of his misery, as well as to shelve the conversation. He agreed with Eric, although Alice's attitude about the whole situation bothered him but as yet he didn't know why.
"Talk to me about the harassment Mary Beckett reported," Tom said.
Eric spoke without losing focus, his tone lightening with the subject change. "The calls made to her from the burner phone were logged but the service provider told us it hasn't been active in the last three years. The number hasn't been reassigned though."
"Do they do that?"
"Oh yes. Most notably when contract plans are cancelled and the number isn't transferred it will be reassigned. Network providers can recycle prepaid mobile numbers if they believe the phone is no longer active. It's how they make the most efficient use of the numbers they have. It can be done within thirty days of the number being made dormant."
"And they don't have to tell the owner?"
Eric shook his head. "No. This particular number has shown up on the networks since Mary Beckett made a complaint but, aside from confirming the phone is still in our area, the data isn't particularly valuable to us."
"Why not?"
"It wasn't used to make calls or send texts. The SIM went active and traded data across the web, but communications were encrypted."
"And what does that mean in English, Eric?" Tom asked, smiling. "I doubt we're dealing with MI5 here."
Eric laughed. "No, of course not. Probably means the user swapped messages within an app of some kind. These can be encrypted for privacy at both ends, so all you see is data passing to and from the handset. Not even the app producer could tell you what was in it."
"Right, but it's still active?"
"As far as we know, yes. The usage has been sporadic but it would indicate the owner is local to our area, resident as well I suspect. The phone seems to come active in short bursts every few months then goes quiet again. Strange. More recently it has been used to call another mobile number, though."
"Another burner?"
Eric nodded. Tom wondered
why the mobile might be used in this way. A prepaid mobile was popular with those who wanted the benefit of a phone but weren't high consumers of either minutes or data. Other users might be young children, parents trying to rein in their spend and keep the costs down. Neither seemed to fit into this scenario. The notion of a child carrying out a campaign of harassment of this nature was fanciful. But why would an adult use a mobile so sparingly? Even people who had limited interaction over the phone would show a consistent pattern, not leaving long periods between use. Eric was right, it was strange. Why it was suddenly actively calling another number was intriguing.
"Has the other number been flagged as well?"
"Yes," Eric said. "The network will contact us if and when there is activity. Obtaining the transcripts of previous or future calls will need an extension to the warrant."
Tom rolled his tongue across the inside of his cheek. Although this was a murder inquiry, they would need more justifiable cause in order to see the details contained within those transcripts. If Beckett's harassment was more recent he was certain they'd get it, but not as things currently stood.
"What about Mary Beckett's accusations regarding her being stalked?"
"That is interesting," Eric said, taking a left turn and feeding the steering wheel through his hands. "She came to us several times to report someone following her, much as her sister described to us. The first note on file I could dig up was from six years ago. At first, she was given fairly generic advice – keep a record of events, number plates of suspicious vehicles, try to avoid being alone in vulnerable locations. Stuff like that. It doesn't seem very adequate."
Eric had a point. The criminal justice system had been slow to recognise stalking as a crime and the subsequent legislation even longer to get through the system. Police forces around the country were adapting to the realisation of the different forms harassment could take as well as how serious it could become.
"Yeah, we've come a long way even in the last six years. Unless someone was actually assaulted, there never used to be much we could do. Did she keep reporting incidents?"
The Dead Call: A chilling British detective crime thriller (The Hidden Norfolk Murder Mystery Series Book 6) Page 14