THE ABBERLEY BEACH MURDERS an addictive crime thriller with a fiendish twist (Detective Dove Milson Book 3)

by D. E. White

  DI Blackman ran through the various jobs and pairings for the day and released his team to work. Dove, unscrewing the lid on her water bottle to refill at the cooler, snagged Steve as he came in late.

  “Bloody car broke down.” His shirt was covered in sweat and he had an oil streak on his cheek. “It was only the filter but it took ages to sort out. I’d better go and make peace with the boss.”

  Dove slapped him on the back. “Bad luck, mate. Oh, and hurry up because we need to get across town to Camillo’s by eight thirty.”

  Steve just groaned, so Dove, feeling she had been slightly unsympathetic, got him a takeaway coffee and a dubious-looking plastic-wrapped pastry from the machine. She presented these offerings with a flourish when he reappeared ten minutes later.

  “Thanks, Milson, I needed that.” He sank his teeth into the pastry, and it was gone before they left the building. “You can tell me what I’ve missed in the car.”

  “No worries, Parker. I’ll drive so you can get your caffeine hit.”

  The car was sweltering inside already, so Dove wound her window down and dived straight into the rush-hour traffic, heading for the industrial estate. Steve for once said nothing as his hair was blown all over the place in the salty breeze.

  Dove parked between two HGVs and turned to him. “So what do you think?”

  “About Camillo’s? We play it by ear. There’s no evidence the cleaning firm is involved in any wrongdoing, is there? Dionne may have just been using her job as a way of, um . . . getting to know people?”

  Dove agreed, pulled her hair back into a tight ponytail and exited the vehicle. “Let’s do this.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Herbert Gunter, the owner of Camillo’s, was loading a van outside his unit when they walked over. “You must be the coppers. I’m bloody busy today so I’ve only got a few minutes.” He scowled at them. “And don’t come at me with invites for her funeral because I don’t give a shit she’s dead.”

  Ignoring the comment, Steve introduced himself and Dove, and the man paused in his work. He was big and flabby, with grey-flecked stubble and dark hair tied back in a lank ponytail. “I don’t want any trouble. If Dionne’s gone and got herself into shit, it was nothing to do with my business. Do you understand? No crime here at Camillo’s. We’re straight down the line and that’s the truth.” He fired the words at them, big hands resting on his hips, chest thrust aggressively forward.

  Wow, Dove thought, what’s he hiding? His eyes darted from one to the other of the police officers but never actually made eye-contact, just kept fidgeting with his pen and pad, before shoving it in his pocket and loading a few more boxes. He was acting as if he was wired. Maybe just too much coffee. Dove studied the boxes he was loading.

  “There’s nothing to suggest that would be the case, Mr Gunter,” Steve reassured him. “We are just following up leads and exploring every avenue in the investigation. That’s our job, to find out what happened to these victims and bring the perpetrator to justice.”

  “Dionne was a stroppy cow,” the man said roughly. “Of course I’m sorry someone topped her, but to be fair she was probably asking for it.”

  “In what way?” Dove queried, leaning against the wall, notebook propped on one knee, scribbling quick sentences.

  “She’s been working for me for eight years without any hassle but this last few months she’s missed shifts and . . .” He narrowed his eyes at them, considering. “She’s bad news now. If you want the truth, I was going to sack her. My workers are honest and on time and she was neither by the end. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear she was getting into drugs or something and we don’t do any of that at Camillo’s.”

  “Any examples you want to give regarding Dionne’s recent behaviour? Presumably she has to clock in and out?” Dove asked.

  “No examples, and yes they all do,” Mr Gunter said curtly.

  Various blue-uniformed staff were arriving or departing in other vans, and while he spoke to the police officers, Mr Gunter was signing dockets and time sheets, barking orders, and snapping his fingers rudely in the face of one worker. “Don’t ask, just get the fucking work done!”

  He turned back to Steve and Dove, an expression of exasperation on his large, square face, jowls wobbling as he shook his head. “Sometimes they need telling twenty times to do one thing. Good job they aren’t all like that.”

  “Is there an office or somewhere quieter we could talk?” Dove suggested hopefully.

  “No.”

  “Well perhaps you would be good enough to collect any paperwork you may have for Dionne? Her time sheet would be an excellent start . . .” Dove stared him down.

  “Do you need a warrant to get stuff like that?”

  Steve smiled pleasantly at the man, “No, but we could get one to search your entire premises, vehicles associated with the business . . .”

  Mr Gunter cut him off. “Look, I can get her time sheet for you, her employment details and copies of the written warnings she had for being late. That’s everything I’ve got on Dionne Radley, so you can take it and get out of my face.”

  “Did you know her husband Tomas, at all?” Steve asked, ignoring the aggression completely.

  “Nope. I don’t get into chit-chat. I work, my staff work, and that’s why we’re the best and the busiest cleaning service round here. Personal stuff fucks you up, so I never cross the line and I don’t give a shit about anyone’s home life as long as their work is good.” He thrust out his jaw aggressively, scowling at them. “I gotta go.” He turned and yelled at a tall, lanky young man who was walking quickly, head down, “You’re late! Go and get Tracey and tell her to print out Dionne Radley’s time sheets and any shit in her file.”

  The man nodded and disappeared quickly into the building.

  “Did you notice anything different about Dionne last night?” Steve persisted.

  “Nope.” Mr Gunter turned away and picked up another cardboard box.

  “Did she often make her own way home, not take the transport with her co-workers?” Dove asked.

  “Sometimes.” His lips closed tight and he seemed on the verge of saying more. But he merely shoved the box into the nearest van and picked up another. This time he paused, looked at them and added, “If I think of anything else, I’ll call you. Where the fuck is Tracey with the paperwork?” He glared around the loading area.

  Dove and Steve waited, both very aware he was holding something back, but he just shook his head. “Look, I do my duty and keep them safe. I like them to come back in the vans after a job, so they all sign out, but Dionne got one of the others to do her time sheet whenever she felt like it.”

  “Who?”

  “Dunno. Anyone on the same shift.”

  “You clean for Mr Ellis Bravery at the Marina Apartments as well, don’t you?”

  He closed his eyes and tapped his forehead, before opening them and announcing, “Three-bed penthouse at the Marina, two bathrooms, every Thursday.”

  “Did Dionne ever clean that property?”

  Something that might have been fear flashed across his face, and Dove hastily added, “It is extremely important we trace her movements from Thursday, so if she was working at that particular property, we need to know.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Mr Ellis Bravery was also murdered that night, and there might be a connection,” Dove informed him. There was no mistaking it now: although he was already sweaty from his work, the man was now agitated and trying to hide it. “Do you think there might be a connection, Mr Gunter?”

  Herbert Gunter stared at them. “No,” he said finally. “You check the rest of Dionne’s time sheets if you like, see where she’s been working. Tracey! Where the fuck have you been?” He yelled at his unfortunate employee, who had emerged from the building. She was wearing a blue-logoed Camillo’s baseball cap pulled down over her nose. “Go and print off Dionne Radley’s time sheets for the past twelve months and hurry up. These two police officers want to ge
t going.”

  “Sorry. I already just did that. Alec told me you wanted the notes from her file too . . .,” she held out a wad of paperwork, tentatively and at arm’s length, as though her boss might bite.

  Gunter snatched it from her trembling hands and handed it to Dove. “That’s the rest of the paperwork.”

  The time sheets were slightly damp and the ink smudged slightly but they were legible. Dove hastily slipped them inside her notebook to study later.

  Tracey, a skinny, stooping fifty-something with wispy hair half-hidden under her cap, waited. “Mr Gunter, did you want me for anything else?” Her voice was unexpectedly soft and gentle, and she spoke carefully, as though she was reading a bedtime story to a child. She stared at Dove and Steve, her huge overbite making her look like a frightened rabbit, before her employer curtly told her to get on with her work.

  “Go and start looking over the delivery documents.” He turned back to the police officers, “You can bugger off. I got a job on now, so I need to get moving.” He nodded briskly at them both, then started yelling at his scurrying blue-overalled staff and leaped into one of the vans. A moment later doors slammed and he roared out of the industrial estate in a cloud of dust.

  “I think he likes us,” Steve commented, as they walked back to the car. Dove was frowning, looking back at the unit with its big blue and gold Camillo’s logo above the door. “Give me a minute, Steve, I’ve got an idea.”

  He sighed, used to her sudden hunches. “Sure thing. I’ll wait in the car. With the air conditioning on full.”

  Dove went back to the industrial unit. The doors were still wide open and she could hear activity inside, chatter and clatter from the vans being loaded and unloaded. The passageway was cool and dark. She blinked as her vision adjusted from the bright sunshine outside. Two huge fans in the roof whirred with an efficient humming noise, keeping the temperature down. She studied her surroundings carefully. Dionne’s life, Dionne’s work. After eight years, why had she suddenly had enough? In fact, why had she had put up with the boss from hell for those eight years?

  Crates and boxes were piled either side of the passageway. Dove could smell bleach and furniture polish, mingling with sweat and fresh paint. A storage room marked with chemical symbols was firmly shut, but further on she could hear urgent voices. Tracey, her voice shaking, was talking shrilly to another woman. The softness and gentleness was gone. She was scared.

  Dove paused again, aware anything she heard would be inadmissible in court, but she had seen Tracey’s frightened glance when she handed over Dionne’s time sheets. Frightened and knowledgeable. She knew something. The next comment seemed to confirm her hunch.

  “. . . the bloody police will find out!”

  “They won’t. The boss won’t say anything and she’s dead now. Why drag her name through the mud, and think of poor Tomas . . .”

  “It might be important. Her and Ellis are both dead, don’t forget. It’s a murder enquiry!”

  “Just keep calm. If you tell them, it will come out in the papers, hurt us, maybe hurt Camillo’s. You say nothing and it’s all good.”

  The other woman seemed to be winning the argument, and Dove waited in the shadows, listening to the clatter of mugs being washed, and finally the pad and squeak of trainers as someone exited the room.

  Tracey turned up the passage and almost bumped right into Dove. Her hand went to her mouth and her eyes were wide with fear, but she didn’t say a word.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Sorry to bother you again, I was just looking for a toilet?” Dove smiled at her reassuringly.

  “I thought you’d gone,” Tracey hissed, with a nervous glance back over her shoulder.

  “Just about to head off now. Mr Gunter’s just left for a job.” Dove waited.

  “The loo is down the end on the right . . .” Tracey was dithering.

  “Thank you. Are you all right? It must have come as such a shock to hear Dionne was dead,” Dove said gently, softly.

  “It was . . . I . . .” She gave another quick furtive look around before she continued. “I’m not making a statement or anything but Dionne was my friend.”

  She stopped again, and Dove put a gentle hand on her arm. “Tracey, if you want to tell me something right now, it will be in complete confidence, okay?”

  Tracey bit her lip, before her words tumbled out. “This never came from me, and if anyone asks I’ll say I never told you, but Dionne’s been kind of wild the last few months. She joined this online dating thing.” Tracey paused and frowned. “I can’t remember what it was called, but she said it was just about hooking up with people. She had this special phone she used . . . She said . . . she said it was her play phone.” Tracey bit her lip, cheeks turning a rosy pink colour. “I caught her texting one time, by accident, and she told me she was having fun and it made her feel alive again.”

  “Did she say she was going to meet someone on the night of the twenty-fifth?” Dove asked, hardly daring to breathe in case they were interrupted. Her mind was spinning with possibilities. Play phone. What the hell was that? She had a sudden vision of her nephew Elan’s plastic toy phone, and hastily dismissed it.

  “There was a man she’d seen a couple of times, but I don’t know his name. She said he was wild in bed.” Tracey coloured up again and rubbed her cheek thoughtfully. “Yeah, she was going to get changed in the public toilets on the seafront, she said, like she usually did if she was off to party after work. She showed me her dress. It was black lace and very short, but she liked to show off what she had. Nothing wrong with that.” Tracey stared at Dove. “She wasn’t a bad person and whatever happened, she didn’t deserve to die.”

  “Of course not.” Dove’s mind was replaying the events leading up to Dionne’s death, adjusting the timeline to fit with Tracey’s information. “Which toilets do you mean?”

  “Opposite Kenny’s Irish Bar. She used to leave her stuff there while she was out and then nip back and get changed before she went home. Just lately, sometimes she didn’t bother, because she said Tomas knew, so she didn’t care.” Tracey picked nervously at a loose thread on her overall. “But she did care what this man thought. She didn’t want him to see her in her work clothes, she said, or lugging a big bag around. It was part of the fantasy, that’s another thing Dionne kept saying. It was all fantasy play or something.”

  “What did she mean?” Dove asked. DC Josh Conrad was going to love this spin on events, she thought wryly.

  “I dunno, but Dionne did say last week she’d never felt more alive or more confident.” Tracey’s eyes grew moist, as she repeated urgently, “She wasn’t a bad person, Detective.”

  A shout from the back of the unit made them both jump. “Tracey? What are you doing in there? I need two extra cartons of bleach for van six, love. Can you bring it over?”

  “I’ve got to go.” Panic flashed across Tracey’s face, and she turned away.

  Dove slipped a card from her pocket and passed it to Tracey. “Thank you, you’ve been really helpful, and if you remember anything else, you can ring me.”

  Tracey stuffed the card in her overall pocket, and called back, “On my way!”

  Just before she disappeared, she turned back and whispered, “One last thing. Dionne hooked up with one of the solicitors at Pearce and Partners. He liked to do it in his office late at night. We’d all be working and she’d nip in for a quickie, and be out again in fifteen minutes.”

  “Did Dionne tell you that?”

  Tracey rolled her eyes and huffed. “No, I caught them at it last week. Alex, his name is, Alex Harbor. But he’s not the man she was meeting on the twenty-fifth, that was the fantasy man.” She scurried off, grabbing a carton of bleach as she hurried down the passageway, grubby trainers squeaking on the sticky floor.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I’m back at a different time of my life today. It’s funny how random my dreams have been. Or are they memories?

  Everything seems brighter, more inte
nse, magnified. It’s as if I can hear, can see, can feel, can join in conversations. Years or days or weeks pass in a haze . . . Was I ever real? Am I real now?

  I can feel paper beneath my fingertips. A hard, glossy pink cover comes into my mind. And the heat. Sand stretching for miles. It’s my diary in my hand.

  I’ve never had a diary before. There’s a pink flamingo pen decorated with feathers. To empty my mind on to the paper is . . . appealing. It’s like a letter to me, from me . . .

  That bleeping sound still. It’s soothing. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6. Six is my lucky number. Six is safe. Counting calms me I can write now, carefully, neatly, on the crisp cream pages.

  My wrist still hurts. I turn it this way and that to ease the pain. But I keep forming words, pushing through the pain and the heat.

  ‘No pain, no gain’. Who said that? Coach Hawthorn? The bars are my hardest event. Since I fell I’m scared to push myself. I won’t get selected if I don’t force through the fear. Mum won’t mind. No more early mornings.

  My competition leotard has blue sequins. It sparkles with dancing rainbows.

  No mail today. No escape yet. I just need to hold on a little bit longer.

  The beeping slows. The heat fades. I’m relaxed and cool again.

  Everything will be okay, Mickey.

  Everything will be okay, Mickey.

  Everything will be okay, Mickey.

  Everything will be okay, Mickey.

  Everything will be okay, Mickey.

  Everything will be okay, Mickey.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “So if the play phones are the burner phones and just used to arrange sex, who orchestrated it all? Ellis Bravery? How do you get from being strangers to distributing phones?” Steve queried, as he drove towards the public toilets on the seafront. “Did you say it was the one opposite Kenny’s Irish Bar?”