by Karen Long
“Can I leave these flowers with you?” he asked Mrs Egerton, who continued to stare blankly at him. “They’re for your next door neighbour Ms Raven.” The staring and what could have been interpreted as incomprehension continued. “These roses are for your neighbour, can you give them to her when she gets back as we can only deliver once.”
Suddenly Mrs Egerton focused her wayward stare on the flowers and a small coy smile spread across her face. “They’re lovely,” she croaked. “Lovely,”
Petr suspected that Mrs Egerton didn’t understand what was required of her but he really needed to get back. “Will you give these to Ms Raven when she gets back from work?” he said slowly.
“Oh yes. They are lovely,” she said lowering the pug to the ground who like Mrs Egerton seemed a little confused by the events unfolding. That was good enough for Petr. He handed the bouquet of roses over to her, repositioned the card as a gesture of consideration and then left, ignoring the final comment from the elderly woman.
“You really shouldn’t have.”
Chapter Eighteen
Smith liked private gyms. He particularly liked to see the women that frequented them. These were the more ethereal types of women with tiny waists, large augmented breasts and figure-hugging lycra sportswear. He was a member of the station gym but the women there were colleagues and as such could not be lusted after. In any case most of the women officers he knew could deck a man with one punch and competed for bench press tallies. He liked a less lethal and more dependent type of woman and placed the Bodyworks Gym receptionist firmly in the former category. At the sight of his badge she had rolled her eyes and scowled unpleasantly at him.
“I’m sorry, am I ruining your fabulous fucking day?” spat Smith, glaring aggressively at her.
“I’ve already spoken to your colleague,” she hissed.
“Bet you were really fucking helpful to him too.”
“Listen, I didn’t know that woman who got murdered. I confirmed that she was a member of this gym and then I introduced him to her trainer,” she said.
He leaned over the desk and met her eye. “I suspect you have heard or read that two officers were murdered last night?” Smith growled. “The information I require may have a direct bearing on that investigation.”
“Then how can I help you officer?” she said slowly.
Smith’s temper was simmering slightly below punch and arrest level. “You can tell me where Tracy Earnshaw is.”
“No I can’t because she didn’t show for her ten o’clock appointment,” replied the receptionist with an eyebrow raise implying there was a wealth of information in that last sentence which could be gleaned if only Smith were brighter or more palatable.
“Is that usual, her not showing up to work?” he asked with interest.
“Actually no. She’s pretty good at showing up. She only has a couple of clients therefore her obligations are limited,” she added knowledgeably.
“How long as she been working here?”
“Not long. Couple of months at best.”
“Give me her address,” said Smith flipping open his notebook. He detected the beginnings of a pause so stormed in quickly with, “…and I want a photo of her too.” With a twitch of her lip the receptionist stabbed the request onto her touch screen using her pen.
“I’ve got her address as 1117, Aldermaston Crescent, Barndale.”
“Uh-huh,” muttered Smith as he wrote it down. “And a photograph?” the receptionist scrolled down a couple of pages.
“Ok, we don’t appear to have a copy of her driving licence or passport by the look of things.”
“That unusual?” asked Smith.
“We keep standard passport photos of all employees so they can be transferred directly onto staff badges. There’s a memo here asking for this to be supplied.”
“When’s she due in next?”
“She’s got an eleven thirty tomorrow morning.”
“Well let’s hope I don’t have to bother you again tomorrow,” said Smith ominously, walking towards the exit.
“Mr Stringer? Malcolm Stringer?” asked Eleanor appraising the man that sat in front of her. She noted his chewed fingernails and unkempt appearance, no wonder Cassandra Willis had despaired at having him as an enforced colleague. “You seem rather unconcerned that your employer has been murdered?” Malcolm shook his head violently and began peeling the skin away from his nail bed. “Didn’t you get on very well?”
“No, but I didn’t kill her,” he said decisively.
“Do you know who did?” she asked casually.
“No!” He resumed his chewing and paring.
When she’d asked if there was anywhere private that they could go to discuss matters, Malcolm had shown them into Cassandra Willis’ office. “It’s the only place you have any privacy here,” he’d complained.
“What about a staff room?” she asked.
Malcolm shook his head, “She didn’t believe in that sort of thing.”
“Are you in line to take over the management Mr Stringer?” she coaxed. Suddenly, Malcolm was on his guard. His posture became less flaccid and his eyes narrowed.
“I’m not saying anything else until I get a lawyer,” he replied fearfully.
“You don’t need a lawyer Mr Stringer because you haven’t been charged with anything. Do you think that’s likely?” she asked.
Again he shook his head.
“Who booked Miss Willis’ car?” she asked innocuously. Malcolm stared at her suspiciously, his eyes darting to Eleanor’s left.
“She did herself,” he replied quickly.
“That’s rather unusual isn’t it? Surely it would be your job?” she coaxed, her voice beginning to harden as she applied pressure.
“I’ve never had to book a car before. My duties are mainly concerning filing.”
“You booked the car. We know you did because Mrs Aroyono told us,” said Eleanor
“What would she know?” replied Malcolm his voice wavering.
“We asked her and she was quite clear that she had offered to do it but you had insisted on taking on the task yourself. Why would you insist on booking the car yourself when everyone in the office attests to the fact that you never volunteer to carry out any work outside your limited responsibilities?”
Malcolm rose slightly in his seat his face reddening as he flushed with anger. But he wasn’t going to be drawn. “I didn’t book the car,” he said firmly and sat down.
There was a knock at the door and Laurence entered. He nodded his head slightly as he took a seat next to Eleanor. A gesture she took to mean that he wanted to question Malcolm.
“Mr Stringer I’ve just been to look at the CCTV footage taken around the time that Miss Willis left the building prior to her disappearance. I have to say that the coverage in this building is of an excellent quality. No fuzzy features or lack of detail,” said Laurence chattily. Malcolm was unmoved; he stared at Laurence and selected another finger for chewing. “Did you know there was a camera located in each elevator? And one positioned in the foyer.” Malcolm shrugged. “I wanted to see exactly what time Miss Willis left the building.” Again Laurence paused, hoping that this information would elicit some sort of response. “She left at four forty pm with her overnight bag, but between the elevator and the airport she vanished. So, we have to conclude that the driver of the car, if not responsible himself, may have information as to where she went or who she met. But, here’s the interesting bit…” Laurence leaned towards Malcolm as if sharing a secret with him. “We see you meeting Miss Willis as the elevator doors open onto the foyer. You seem agitated… am I right?” Eleanor and Laurence watched Malcolm’s face for any sign that might indicate a deeper level of involvement. But he was focussing his gaze on the door and appeared not to be listening. “And then when the elevator doors open and Miss Willis steps out you seem upset and what I can only suppose was an argument took place between the two of you. Am I right?” Again Malcolm ignored the question,
raising his eyebrows in a gesture of indifference. “But the most fascinating part of this whole drama is when the two of you part company and you are alone in the elevator.”
Malcolm’s eyebrows wrinkled together as if trying to remember exactly what had taken place.
“You start to laugh Malcolm. Big, side-splitting hoots of laughter. The kind of belly laugh that only shakes us when something really, really funny happens,” Laurence was moving ever closer to Malcolm, his voice slowing hypnotically. “You knew what was going to happen to her didn’t you?” There was a heavy silence. Malcolm’s eyes narrowed and he clamped his thin lips together.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied slowly.
“I think you do Mr Stringer. I think you planned to have Miss Willis picked up and murdered and I can prove it,” he said calmly.
“How are you going to do that when it didn’t happen?” shrieked Malcolm.
“I’m going to find five thousand dollars missing from your bank account.”
Both Eleanor and Laurence watched as the colour drained from Malcolm’s flabby cheeks.
Aldermaston Crescent was situated in the run-down east side of the city. A mile to the west and the streets were lined with maple, ash and white cedar and attracted chickadees and nighthawks, whereas the square mile that made up the neglected estate specialised in more defensive shrubs such as buckthorn and poison ivy.
Smith knocked again on the front door of 1117. He’d been standing in the rain waiting for a response for the past three minutes and felt that if he’d stood there till the crack of doom no one would answer. He looked up and down the street, surprised that Tracy couldn’t have afforded a little better. Her house was poorly maintained with an overgrown weedy garden and filthy windows. Smith stepped cautiously through the sodden grass and peered in through one of the windows. It was hard to see through the grime and mould but he managed to make out a television and an armchair with a crocheted throw. Of Tracy or any other living being there was no sign.
“I aint seen ’er for a while,” said an elderly man propped against the neighbouring picket divide. He grinned warmly at Smith revealing very few remaining teeth.
“And you see her regularly?” asked Smith.
“Yup. I like her. She’s nice to me. Fetches me stuff from the store.” He nodded sagely. “But I ain’t seen her for a while.”
“Tracy Earnshaw?” asked Smith encouragingly.
“Yup, that’s her. Tracy.” He turned to go.
“Don’t suppose you’d know where to contact her, would you?” asked Smith hopefully.
“Well if I did I would ’cos I need some ’baccy and I’m runnin’ real low on coffee,” his voice trailed off as his attention began to wander.
Smith was irritated. He wanted to interview this woman as soon as possible but with no access or information on her whereabouts he decided to leave her his number and a request to contact him. Tearing a sheet out of his headed contact pad he began to write in a large unjoined hand.
“Like I said,” repeated the old man, his attention drawn back to Smith, “I aint seen ’er leave for a couple of days.”
Smith stopped writing and looked at the old man. “Let’s make this clear. You haven’t seen her for days or you haven’t seen her leave in days.”
The elderly neighbour looked thoughtful, his brow crinkling with the effort. “I ain’t ever seen ’er leave.”
He took a step towards the old man and spoke slowly so he would understand the importance of what he’d just said. “I am going to ask you again sir,” he held his shield in front of the man’s face. “Did you see Tracy Earnshaw leave her house and not return?” He paused to let this sink in. “Or do you think she might still be in the property not having left for several days.”
The elderly man looked worried as if he’d just realised the relevance of his last comment. “I look out of the window you see, in the mornings. But I never seen her leave.”
“Ok sir. My name is Detective John Smith and I’m going to enter your neighbour’s house because you are fearful that something may have happened to her.”
The old man nodded mutely.
“Any access you know of before I enter through the front?” asked Smith.
The old man shook his head, frightened now.
Smith took a quick look through the window and walked around the side of the building, testing windows and the back door but none were open. With quick efficiency Smith put his shoulder to the front door and with minimum effort cracked the door away from its architrave.
The house was dark and cold but there was no mistaking the stench of death. Smith didn’t need a handkerchief as he’d been inhaling the metallic, methanous fumes for most of his professional life. He sighed and began to move slowly and methodically through the house, his torch held at shoulder height.
He found the woman sprawled on her bed. She’d been dead for at least twenty-four hours judging by the discoloration of the body. Smith slipped on a pair of latex gloves and touched the woman’s hand. It was rigid and very cold and the gun she still held tightly in her right hand was a Glock 45mm. An unusual weapon for a woman to select thought Smith. But what was even more unusual was the fact that she’d shot herself in the face. Never in twenty years had Smith known a woman to have destroyed herself by using that method; generally if a gun was used it was a bullet to the chest. As he called in support he knew that this was no suicide, despite the fact that her hand was tightly gripping the Glock. He stared at what remained of Tracy Earnshaw’s head and hoped that she’d had a penchant for easily identifiable tattoos.
Malcolm Stringer had been given state-appointed legal representation in the form of Miss Lana Turner, a name she had learned to appreciate with good humour as it seldom failed to draw a second wry glance from a new acquaintance. Unlike her glamorous namesake she was a small, dumpy, unprepossessing woman with a lesbian partner of thirty years and three adopted children all with special needs and requiring full time care. She had dedicated her life to the pursuit of truth, tolerance and fair play so when she encountered Malcolm Stringer her hackles rose and she found herself struggling to balance these principals with the miserable specimen in front of her.
“Let me run through this again Mr Stringer to make sure we’re batting from the same ball park,” she said trying unsuccessfully to sound sympathetic. “You maintain that you are completely innocent of all involvement in the death of your employer Cassandra Willis.” She waited.
Malcolm nodded.
“So, you said you paid Cindy five thousand dollars for what again?” she asked with a mixture of disbelief and outrage.
“We had ‘relations’ and she said that she needed five thousand dollars to help pay off her debts to some mafia guy.”
“But you were happy to do this even though…” she let this sink in, “you had known her for barely three days and are not sure what her surname was, where she worked or even if you’d ever see the money again?”
Malcolm shrugged. “I trusted her. I thought we had a good future together.”
“Had a good future?” Miss Turner butted in.
Malcolm paused for a couple of moments, trying to take stock of the implications of the word ‘had’. “Have,” he corrected himself nervously. “We have a great future together and that’s why I don’t mind sharing my wealth with her.”
“Have you spoken to Cindy at any time since arranging to hand over the money to her?” she asked.
Malcolm turned his head away and ignored her.
“Look Mr Stringer I suggest that you co-operate with the police and provide them with the necessary information so they can locate and question Cindy. Until that is done they are going to make the assumption that your… generosity… is in some way linked to the death of Cassandra Willis.
With a brisk knock Eleanor walked into the interrogation room with Laurence at her heels.
“Mr Stringer have you had sufficient time to discuss matters with your legal represen
tative?”
Malcolm nodded and then tucked both hands neatly under his backside. A gesture not lost on Eleanor. “You seem a little anxious Mr Stringer. Well knowing that you have agreed to co-operate with us in this matter I will try and keep my questioning to the bare minimum and hopefully we can get a closure on the matter surrounding the death of Cassandra Willis.”
“What do you mean? I didn’t agree anything with you!” whined Malcolm. A hand slipped from its mooring and began to wave around excitedly. Eleanor saw Lana Turner’s hand make a tamping gesture in an effort to keep him from making any detrimental comments which was her cue to carry on niggling away until she got somewhere near to the truth.
“Malcolm, what you are about to tell us will have a direct bearing on whether you are charged with first degree murder or manslaughter. Is that understood?” Eleanor said firmly.
Miss Turner jotted down a couple of shorthand notes and watched Malcolm carefully before she spoke. “As you know my client is willing to co-operate and has accounted for the money missing from his account. He has no knowledge of the death of his employer Miss Willis and…”
“…This is what we know.” Eleanor cut in. “Cassandra Willis was collected by an unknown man at round about four forty pm on Thursday evening by a car that had been pre-booked but not from any private hire company working legitimately out of the area. This has already been checked. The person who volunteered to take on that responsibility was you Mr Stringer and we have several members of the office staff who will confirm that, even overhearing Miss Willis asking you when her car was due. So our first question is why would you want to arrange for a car to collect her and then deny it when there is overwhelming evidence to state that you did?