Too Clever by Half

by Will North

  TERRY BATES HADN’T even driven up out of the Borrowdale Valley, late Friday morning, first June, when she was on her mobile to Morgan Davies.

  “Enjoying your holiday in the Lakes, Terry?” Davies answered.

  “I’m coming straight back tonight.”

  “Careful how you go, luv: you’re not too tired?”

  “I’ve got the lights and strobes. Won’t take long.”

  “Like I said…”

  “Yeah, whatever. Here’s the short report: I’m about one hundred percent sure Hansen’s ex-wife knows nothing about his estate. But I did get one bit of information we can follow up on straightaway: his lawyers are at Borland and Company’s Helston branch. Handled his farm issues and also their divorce. Says they treated her right. Reckon it’s a good chance he might have used them for his estate, too. Worth a try anyway, yeah? Maybe you can get on to them before they close for the weekend is what I was thinking.”

  Davies looked at her mobile and smiled. Speaking again, she said, “I’m thinking that you thinking is dangerous, Bates. But yes, I’ll attend to it. Any other orders for me, detective constable?”

  There was silence at the other end.

  “That was me teasing you, Terry…”

  “Oh. Right. Well then, no. Carry on, Morgan.”

  Davies rang off and chuckled. Borland had offices in Penzance and Newquay as well as Helston. Its main office was in Truro, a block from the Crown Court.

  “WELL YES, OF course we keep the originals of all legal documents, including wills, in safe storage. That’s standard practice,” Borland’s Helston managing partner, Jeremy Rothenberg, said. He sat behind an antique walnut desk, his hands folded across an ample belly, his thin grey hair oiled to his scalp.

  “Our clients only get certified copies, you see. But we could never release last testaments without the permission of the named executor. That’s standard practice.”

  “Even in the case of murder?”

  She heard a sharp intake of breath. “Perhaps especially so, detective.”

  “Then it all depends upon the executor, am I right?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well then, I wonder if you would be so kind as to identify Archie Hansen’s executor, or must I obtain a court order for that?”

  “Well, no, but that may take some days. We handle hundreds of wills, and we keep most of them in storage, off site.”

  “You do not have electronic copies?”

  “We are a venerable firm, detective.”

  “Venerable or just ossified, Mr. Rothenberg?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Oh come off it, Rothenberg. Your client’s dead. Murdered. Got that? If someone stands to benefit we need to know that. I’m assuming even someone as venerable as you can comprehend that, am I right?”

  “Well, if you put it that way…”

  “Which I do. Now, how soon?”

  “A few days. I’ll put someone on it.”

  “I don’t have a few days. Perhaps you should be the one who’s ‘on it,’ Rothenberg. Today. Do you take my meaning? This is a criminal investigation. I expect an answer forthwith. Otherwise, I’m coming after you for obstruction. That's my standard practice.”

  Rothenberg sat speechless.

  “FUCKING OFFICIALDOM,” DAVIES mumbled as she switched on the ignition of her car. The fact was she thoroughly enjoyed bullying recalcitrant officials. She could not abide equivocators, whether government or private sector. She saw them all as weaklings. There was a hard, angry part of her that wanted to drive every one of them into the ground like a pile-driver. It was all about lies and excuses. It was all about denying responsibility. It was all about Aberfan. Aberfan and the dead there, for whom the National Coal Board had never admitted responsibility. She wondered if that cloud would ever lift, what it would take to put it finally into the distant past. Calum West understood. He’d lost his wife to cancer, so very young. And yet, somehow, he managed his grief. What elixir had he found to help with his terrible loss? Was that elixir generally available? That Calum…the longer she worked with him the more she appreciated him. A gentleman, he was, and protective of her, too. In any other situation she would have bristled at someone trying to protect her. But with Calum she had no sense that he was being superior, or that he thought her incapable. He just always seemed to have her back and, as a cop, that was precious to her.

  CHARLOTTE PULLED THE vibrating mobile phone from her hospital smock and looked at the screen.

  “Archie! I wasn’t expecting to hear from you,” she said when she answered. It was Monday, fourteenth May, and she was just finishing her morning shift. She’d mopped floors, remade beds for incoming patients, and visited patients she knew. Her job as an orderly was only part-time and mornings were when they needed her most, as patients were discharged.

  “Thor wants you. Fell asleep Saturday night. Thor missed what he needed. Come, and bring supper.”

  “I shall be honored,” Charlotte replied. “I’ll be there soon, my Lord.”

  She’d worked at the small hospital for nearly four years, and once, while mopping just outside the locked door to the drugs room, she’d memorized the entry code while watching a nurse punch it into the keypad. When a favorite patient seemed restless or anxious or in pain, she’d slip into the drugs room, take a single .5 mg Lorazepam tablet, and dissolved it in the patient’s water glass. Soon thereafter, the patient rested quietly.

  On this afternoon, while the nurses were busy debriefing during the shift change, she slipped on a latex surgical glove, punched in the entry code, and removed an entire plastic container of Lorazepam tablets. That many would be missed. She didn’t care. No one would suspect her. She was only an orderly.

  After work she headed into central Helston.

  “Charlotte Johns! It’s been ages!” Marge Collins exclaimed as she entered Heathercraft, the fabric and trims shop on Coinagehall Street. “How’ve you been keeping?” The shop owner was about Charlotte’s age, but plump as a currant bun and her hair already gone to silver.

  “Got my place all decorated a few years back and I guess that was it for me for a while. I’m not much of a seamstress. Don’t even have a machine.”

  “I could teach you, you know, and I’ve got inexpensive reconditioned sewing machines, as well,” Marge said.

  “I’d rather rely on professionals, like you.”

  “Right then, fine, but what can I do for you today?”

  “I need new tie-backs for the curtains in my cottage. I was thinking of something braided in black, to match my black and white striped drapes.”

  “Black and white? Very modern that is; I don’t recall selling that fabric to you…”

  “IKEA, they are. From Bristol. Sorry.”

  Marge waved a hand. “Not to worry, I understand. Hard to beat their prices. We often fill in with the accessories, which is fine. Come to the back; I think I’ve got just the thing for you.”

  Leaving the shop with twelve yards of shiny black braided cotton cord thick as a forefinger, Charlotte stopped at Sainsbury’s. She got Ling cod fillets, fresh off the boats at Newlyn, which she’d batter and fry along with oven-baked chips. Archie loved fish and chips. She also bought a bottle of Italian Prosecco with which to celebrate. It was the fifth anniversary of their hand-fasting. Archie, of course, would not remember. Tonight, though, she would remind him.

  Thirty-Two

  WHEN ARCHIE STEERED his tractor into the shed at the end of the day, Charlotte watched as he ascended the steep stair to the loft above, checking his treasure trove. She smiled. As clever as he often was, he could also be so obvious, like a whizz kid with no street smarts.

  She met him at the kitchen door with a glistening pint of ale. She wore her red robe with the dragon embroidery. She had on matching red stilettoes she’d got from Marks and Spencer’s in Hayle that very afternoon. Archie set the beer aside and tried to run a rough hand up beneath the robe. As usual, she slapped him away.

  “Go
on then, you randy beast, and clean up. I’ll still be here waiting…”

  “What you got under that silk robe is what I want to know…”

  “One or two things you like is all I’m sayin’.”

  Archie grinned. “Be right down.”

  A half hour later, Archie tucked into the fish and chips with gusto while Charlotte picked at a salad. She waited until he was nearly done and on his third bottle of Doom Bar.

  “Know what today is, Arch?”

  “Monday,” he answered, pushing the last of the chips into his mouth and wiping his lips on a sleeve.

  “That’s right. Fourteenth May. That date mean anything to you?”

  Archie looked up. “Huh?”

  “Day we were hand-fasted. Five years exactly it’s been. Our anniversary.”

  Archie waved a hand as if clearing cobwebs from his mind. “Bloody hell. Completely forgot…”

  She forced a smile. “Men do. But I remembered, and I have a special night planned for you…”

  Archie brightened.

  Charlotte stood and opened her robe, revealing a shiny red latex bustier and matching thong. She dropped the robe to the floor.

  Archie rose from his chair but she ordered him to sit.

  “First,” she announced, “there must be a toast.” Then she winked: “Or perhaps several.” She strutted across the kitchen, pulled the Prosecco from the fridge, and carefully removed its pressurized cork. Archie had no champagne glasses so she used wine glasses. Her back turned to him while he admired the view from the rear, she slipped 10 mg of Lorazepram she’d already crushed into the bubbly in one of the glasses and then filled her own. Then she opened the fridge again, bent over to improve Archie’s view, and retrieved a small ramekin of caramel-crusted crème brûlée she’d bought in Helston. She crossed the room and set the glass and dish before him with a bow. The bubbles had dissolved the drug completely. Then she lifted her own glass.

  “To five passionate years with my Thor,” she said. She raised and quickly drained her glass. Following her lead, Archie did the same. Then he dove into the custard.

  “The fifth is the ‘wood’ anniversary, you know,” Charlotte said as she refilled his glass. “And I have gathered a few blackthorn twigs from the May tree at the edge of the yard with which to tease you tonight. The soft green thorns will make your skin tingle and yearn.”

  Archie grinned. “I reckon Thor can manage some wood, too.” He always fancied being teased. But his head was already starting to fuzz.

  Up in the big oaken bed, Charlotte held Archie’s head between her legs as she tied his wrists to the posters at the head of their bed with the shiny new black braided cord. She’d taped the ends to keep them from unraveling. Archie was completely naked and grinning though his eyes struggled to focus.

  “Thor wants you,” he struggled to say, his voice barely audible beneath her.

  She ran a warm, wet tongue down his torso and then tied his ankles to the posters at the bottom. Archie squirmed. When he was fully secured she swished the blackthorn branches lightly along his thighs.

  “Tickles…” Archie said, twisting against the restraints. He was already hard.

  “Oh, I think I must demand you be quiet while I play with you.”

  She stood above him, slipped off the red latex thong and forced it into his mouth to silence him. He fussed a bit, but was unable to eject the thong without his hands. And his drugged tongue would not cooperate.

  When she saw he was struggling to keep his eyelids open despite his excitement, she raised the blackthorn branches and brought them down sharply between his legs.

  “Uh!” Archie grunted, eyes now wide.

  “I’m sorry, Arch, was that a bit too much for my big, strong Thor? I thought you were invincible…?”

  Another blow from the branches and he jumped again, his upper thighs and groin raising angry red welts.

  Charlotte timed the attacks to keep the drugged Archie from slipping away. Each time he drowsed, she thrashed him again. In her head, the attic video was a vivid and continuous loop.

  At one point Archie passed out, but she was prepared. She’d lifted one of Archie’s treasured old swords from the wall in his tiny office. It was not his broadsword, the one he took to Druid meetings. It was instead smaller, lighter, slightly curved, and razor sharp: an antique Turkish scimitar. She took the grip of the sword in her right hand, steadied the blade with her left, drew it lightly across Archie’s torso, left to right, and watched the tiny droplets of blood rise from the surface of his skin.

  Archie’s eyes flew open and he screamed through the thong. But in moments he slipped into unconsciousness again as the drug dragged him under. She watched the blood trickle in little rivulets down his sides to the sheet below, beneath which she’d tucked a plastic tarpaulin to protect the bed. Finally, she pressed a rolled towel against the shallow seam of open flesh and held it there for fifteen minutes. When she lifted the towel, the blood had coagulated.

  She smiled, then went to the bedroom across the hall, removed the bustier, and set her alarm for three in the morning, when the drug would begin to wear off. Then, she would begin again.

  Thirty-Three

  DICKY TOWNSEND YANKED the steering wheel of his aging Ford Fiesta left and right through the twisting lanes of the Lizard Peninsula and finally turned up the farm track to the Hansen place, where Charlotte told him he would find her. It was just past three that next day. Her VW Polo was in the back and he parked next to it.

  She met him at the door in a thin sundress and sandals.

  Townsend caught her in his arms and swung her in a circle of joy and then let her down again. Charlotte giggled.

  “Bloody hell, I’ve missed you, love,” he whispered in her ear.

  “No need to whisper, Dicky, we’re on our own.”

  She took his hand. “I thought you’d be hungry; I’ve made lunch.”

  In the kitchen she’d laid out a wedge of aged cheddar, sliced beef, salad greens, brown granary bread, and a bottle of French Sancerre in a sweat-streaked stainless steel ice bucket. She made him sit, straddled his lap, and plunged her tongue into his mouth. She kissed him until he was hard, then jumped off and said, “Lunch?”

  “Must we?” he groaned.

  “Yes. We have much to consider and do. But we both need fuel, and I’ve had nothing to eat since last night.”

  “Why?”

  “Busy.”

  As they ate she asked Dicky about his drive south and, from time to time, fed him morsels from her plate, which he licked from her fingers. Between them, and in short order, they’d drained the wine bottle.

  Finally, his mind alternating between lust and the treasure, Townsend said, “You were urgent that I come down. What is it, Char? What needs doing?”

  Charlotte laughed. “You men always think something needs doing or fixing. Everything’s under control. I have secured the treasure, don’t you worry. I have also secured Archie. He’s trussed up like the garbage he is, to be disposed of before we can be free.”

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “He’s upstairs. Unconscious. I have been seeing to him, the bastard. Years of catering to his every whim and then to be betrayed? No, his escape fantasy with Bobby Tregareth’s partner stops here. As for that woman, I’ve already showed Bobby the video. None of my business what happens to them next.”

  Townsend just stared.

  “Funny thing about Archie, Dicky,” she mused. “He believed he ruled our Druid grove, thought our members followed him when, in fact, I orchestrated everything, including helping them understand his slightly twisted Scandinavian saga version of Druidry. I even had sex with one of the doubters, to bring him around as well. God, what a hopeless excuse for a man he was, nothing like you, Dicky,” she said, squeezing his hand across the table, “nothing like the man you are. You’re strong, solid, and above all, a gentleman. No woman, at least not this one, could resist that. We have a future to plan once we get these other matters s
ettled.”

  She leaned forward and pulled his head to her lips. “Come upstairs and see our Archie.”

  Dicky stood just inside the door to the bedroom and struggled to take in what he saw. Hansen was bound, legs and arms, and motionless. Multiple abrasions and shallow cuts laced his torso and legs. Blood stained the sheet beneath him and clotted to an almost brown color along the lines of his cuts, the wounds no longer fresh.

  Like a tour guide, Charlotte explained the scene: “This is what happens when you betray the woman who has devoted her life to you. I keep him alive so I can remind him.”

  “He’s not dead?”

  Charlotte laughed. “Oh no, that's just drugs from the hospital. They’ll discover it eventually, but they’ll never suspect me. He feels no pain, now, unless I awaken him. He is quite peaceful. And I don’t think I shall be awakening him ever again.

  “Now, as I’ve been busy here all morning,” she said, shooing Dicky back downstairs, “I need a favor. Can you pop up to the Sainsbury’s at Helston and gather some things for supper? I’ve made a list. I want to make a special supper just for us.”

  There was something about the common domesticity of this request that made Dicky’s heart leap even as he fought off the horror of the scene he’d just seen. There had never been a woman who’d reached him deeply, but this one did and he found it both frightening and powerfully erotic.

  DICKY DROVE DOWN the farm track and turned left into the one-lane road heading toward Helston a couple of miles away. He’d cleared the little bridge across Gillan Creek in the steep valley below Manaccan when he encountered a car slewed sideways so as to partly block his way. It was the navy blue Audi, once again. The driver, a wiry chap with salt and pepper hair cut like a helmet close to his skull, stepped into the lane. He wore a black suit with a grey shirt open at the neck. Dicky looked into his rear view mirror but found no way to reverse out of the situation. The man approached, opened the passenger door of Dicky’s Ford, settled into the seat, and placed a 9mm Makarov automatic pistol on his lap.