by Coles, Linda
“The system never lies on that,” said Rochelle. “So, you yourself, you weren’t driving?”
“No, I was in the office all morning, you can check.”
“We will. Who else has access to the vehicles?”
“Several people,” he said. “I’d have to check the log, but I don’t have that here right now.”
“Could we inconvenience you to take a look at the log this evening? We’ll drop you back afterwards since it’s only a short run into town.”
Duncan looked at his wife, who shrugged. “Might as well,” she said. “Get it over with.”
“I’ll get my jacket,” he said and left the room.
Ten minutes later, Duncan and the two detectives entered the small building that had been a funeral home and in the Sanders family for close to a century. They followed the big man through to an office, where he sat down at a desk.
“It won’t take me a minute,” he said by way of explanation, and Mason and Flint watched as he checked the log to find out who had taken the car.
“Well, that is strange,” he said, turning to the detectives. “There’s nothing written. It seems nobody took a car out yesterday. No entry. What time did you say it was?”
“We believe late morning.”
“Well, there’s nothing here for yesterday, other than the actual funeral we attended later on, so I’d have to ask each staff member. Like I said, there would be no reason to use the Mercedes. All the team have their own vehicles to drive to work in.” The man seemed troubled. Had one of his team taken the car joyriding? It didn’t make any sense.
“So,” said DI Mason, “who would have access to the keys and be able to take the car unnoticed, without writing it up?”
“But that only leaves one person.”
“And who might that be?” she asked.
“My sister.”
Sixty-Eight
A little part of Cynthia had been thrilled to be asked to be a part of what Birdie and her friends were involved in. Her new-found skills were about to come in very useful. She just had to make sure she covered her tracks well and didn’t get caught. It helped that the church database would surely be pretty simple to get into, and if she could help Birdie find the person responsible for the murders, then why not? It would be a blast. She poured a large whisky and soda and took herself to the spare bedroom where she did her work. It looked a little like a television production studio with screens attached to a large workspace at various heights. She made a start.
With barely any of the amber liquid remaining in her glass, she finally had a list that her friend would need – the names and addresses of the volunteers and employees of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. There weren’t many, the exercise hadn’t been hard to do, and she wondered what else might be of use to them while she was up to no good. Or was it doing good? It was tempting to do a background check on each of the names, but she didn’t have the means to hack into a police database. She assumed there’d be other ways to get the information, and no doubt her tutor would be able to help, but she couldn’t exactly ask him. Right now, that was way outside her skill set. She wondered what Birdie and her friends were actually looking for with the names she’d come up with – would any of them fit the bill straight off? What could the vicar, the flower arranger, the sexton and a whole bunch of other volunteers get up to that was so bad? Everybody had murder in them, she knew that. Who would have suspected her all those years ago, when she was so meek and mild, the proverbial mouse? She hadn’t been the only one with murder on her mind. Cynthia scanned the list. There were five women and three men on it. It would be unusual for the vicar to be a murderer but not impossible, and the sexton would have the perfect place to bury the body since he was in charge of the grounds. Flower ladies? Coffee morning organisers? She wondered who she was looking at, which one it might be and for what reason, and figured she’d have to wait and see what transpired. Her work, for now, was done. Satisfied that she’d got everything she could, she dialled Birdie and gave her the good news.
“Have you managed it?” Birdie greeted her.
“Of course I’ve managed it, it only took me as long as it does to drink a large whisky and soda. I’m quite impressed with my own actions, even if I say so myself.”
Birdie smiled at her friend. Look at her now, hacking into databases like it was the most natural thing in the world to do.
“They can’t trace this back to you, can they?”
“I wouldn’t have thought so. I’ve been careful, yes, but this is all in the name of justice. And hey, so what if they catch me? I’ll be dead soon enough anyway.”
Birdie hadn’t been expecting that and wondered if she should dig a little further since it was said so matter-of-factly.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Birdie said breezily, as if they were chatting about their next holidays.
“Happens to all of us,” she said. “We’re all dying at various speeds, but hey ho, I’m going to enjoy what time I’ve got left. We’re a long time dead.”
Neither of them were spring chickens, though Birdie hoped she had plenty more years in her old girl’s body yet.
“That’s true.” Changing the subject from death, Birdie said, “Can you email me the list?”
“Sure, it’s on its way to you now, so it’s over to you to use the information. Let me know if you need anything else, though I’m not sure what else I can provide. I was hoping to do a background check on the names, but I can’t see a way to do it.”
“I appreciate what you’ve done, Cynthia, thanks again. I’ll be in touch soon, hopefully with a result.”
Sixty-Nine
Will wasn’t really paying attention to the movie on the TV. He was exhausted, the day had caught up with him and he was ready for bed, though he knew sleep wouldn’t come, not yet anyway. The girls were spark out in their rooms and Louise was glued to the ending of the romantic comedy he’d missed most of. He sipped on the last of his drink and wondered about a mug of hot chocolate to follow. As the credits finally rolled, Louise stretched, and as she turned to him with eyes a little pink and moist at the edges, Will realised he hadn’t noticed her crying at the story, though he’d heard faint sniffing.
“You’re a softy,” he said, smiling, and received an embarrassed grin as she dabbed with a tissue.
“I couldn’t help it,” she said. “What a lovely ending.”
“So why are you crying?” He was bemused.
“Because everything worked out for them in the end. Isn’t that what life’s about? Doing your bit for someone or something special? Isn’t that why you’re involved in volunteering at the centre? To help those in need?”
“Okay, okay,” he said, putting his hands up in surrender. “I get your point. Do you fancy a hot chocolate?”
She turned the TV off with the remote and said, “I’ll make it. You look done in, you’ve had a tough day.”
“Well, I am actually,” he said. “But I’m able to make a hot drink—”
“I’ll do it,” she cut him off, standing up.
He knew when he was beaten. “Thanks, I appreciate it.”
As Louise left the living room, Will’s phone pinged with an incoming text, and he saw it was from Birdie. It read, I’ve got the info. Emailing it now. Will quickly tapped a reply with a thumbs-up emoji and clicked on the email app on his smartphone. As he waited for the screen to refresh, Birdie’s email came through and he read it quickly. There in front of him were the names and addresses of eight individuals, three male and five females, including the vicar, whom he knew from his work as a gravedigger, and the sexton, whom he also knew from his work at the church. “I can’t see it being Joanna or Peter,” he said to the empty room, “though nothing is impossible these days.”
“What’s not impossible?” asked Louise as she entered with two steaming mugs.
“I’m just looking at the list of staff and volunteers from the church and I can’t see the vicar or the sexton being part of this.”
“I wouldn’t think so either,” she said, placing his hot chocolate down on a nearby table.
“Well, Peter is quite generous in size, it wouldn’t take much for him to overpower somebody and suffocate them, so he wouldn’t need the help of drugs. Joanna is a different story, though, she’s extremely petit and would need all the help she could get.”
“So, who else is there?”
“I don’t recognise any of the other names actually,” he said, scanning the list again. “Their addresses are here so I guess I’ll go and speak to them under some sort of guise, maybe be a market researcher,” he said, smiling.
“Don’t go getting yourself into any mischief. I understand why you’re trying to do this, but if you start posing as somebody else, you might find yourself in bother, Will Peters. I know you mean well, but I’m just saying.”
“I hear you loud and clear, but I’ve got to figure out what to do next now.”
“Well, I would start with the hot chocolate and sleep on it. Then in the morning I’m sure you’ll come up with the right plan.”
“Did I mention I was going to church tomorrow?”
“You? Church, Will Peters?”
“I’m not an atheist, you know, I just don’t go very often.”
“Not at all, more like.”
“I’m going to meet Birdie and Stanley tomorrow and we’re going to mix and mingle afterwards, see what we can eavesdrop into or uncover. There’s bound to be gossip after the recent find. Fancy joining us for a coffee after the service?”
“I’ll stay here. I’m sure you don’t need four screaming young ones while you interrogate little old ladies,” she added, smiling. “No, you go and do what you need to do, and I’ll see you when you get back.”
Will texted Birdie with his plan, such as it was: Pick you up at 830, I’ll grab Stanley then we can meet before church. How does that sound? He clicked send. A thumbs-up emoji came back. Now all he needed to do was pray that Stanley wore suitable attire on his feet and was in a good mood when he picked him up. He’d rather have a screaming child in his ear than a cantankerous old man.
Seventy
It was time for the second part of the plan. The killer had hoped that three dead bodies would have been enough, but since the mayor had not heeded the message and paid up, it was only fair they carried through with their threat. There had to be the desired end result or else it had all been a waste of time, not to mention of life.
The killer slipped back into the office wearing latex gloves, not that it mattered since their prints would be all over the office anyway; it was more in case they touched something they really shouldn’t do – they couldn’t risk it. Once inside, they made their way to the stationery cupboard and pulled out a brand-new ream of paper, unwrapped it and slipped it into the photocopier’s paper tray, then pressed the start button to warm it up. While they waited, the killer removed a Jiffy bag from the same cupboard, taking care to select one from the middle of the pack. Working quickly before somebody saw the light on and wondered what they were up to, they took the papers they’d brought with them and one by one laid them on the photocopier glass to make a copy. When all ten documents had been copied, they slipped the originals back into their original envelope before putting the copies into the Jiffy bag. The killer had been tempted to write the recipient’s name on the front but that would have involved their own handwriting and they weren’t stupid enough to do it with their left hand to confuse things. The killer knew when the police got hold of the envelope, as they indeed would, they’d have a handwriting specialist take a look and figure it out, so it was best to leave it blank. It was actually incredibly hard to commit a crime these days, the laboratories could do almost anything and the killer prayed that forensics wouldn’t find any evidence that could be linked back to themselves. They sealed the Jiffy bag up with its self-seal and carried it carefully, not wanting it to touch anything. Anyone that witnessed them would see quite literally a mail packet and nothing more – it hadn’t got anything written on it, there was no story to tell.
The killer left the office as stealthily as they’d entered and headed to their car, where they put the Jiffy bag onto the plastic sheet that covered the passenger seat. They scratched their head again. The wig irritated a little and they wondered if Jonesy had had nits. Perhaps they should have washed it before using it, though there hadn’t been time.
The killer drove to the town centre and parked down a side street. Pulling up the hood of their hoodie, they grabbed the envelope and, staying close to the shadows, headed across the street to a taxi rank. When they reached the first vehicle in the queue, they slipped in the back, head down, and instructed the driver to take them to the newspaper’s offices on Pavilion Drive. They would have preferred a bigger paper – a national, perhaps – but that meant a longer journey, and they didn’t want to risk the information getting lost, particularly as there was no name on the front of the envelope. The receptionist would likely open it, and contaminate it with her own DNA and prints, before it was passed around the small team until someone made the connection between the information within and the dead homeless men. By that stage, it would be too late for any forensic evidence to be of use.
The taxi driver tried several times to make conversation and eventually gave up. It was only a short journey and they soon pulled up outside the darkened building on the small business estate. Again keeping to the shadows of the building, they slipped the envelope into the letterbox and added a fake limp as they walked back to the waiting taxi. The second part of the plan was now in motion. The killer instructed the driver to head back before they walked the few paces down the side street to their own car. Once inside, the killer took a handful of deep breathes to steady their racing heart then reflected on what had been set in motion.
The worst of the plan was over, the documents had been delivered. All they could do now was pray that somebody made the connection fast and watch from a distance as all hell broke loose.
Seventy-One
Birdie replied to Will’s text and said she’d bake scones and they could have coffee and chat at her place before they left. There was little point driving to a café when her kitchen table would work just as well, and she’d enjoy having him there.
Will waited as Stanley slowly ambled down his front path and was pleased to see he’d got trainers on again, though the laces weren’t done up. Not wanting the old man to trip, he hurried from the car to greet him and tie his laces for him. “Morning, Stanley,” said Will brightly. “Let me just get those laces for you before you go headlong.”
“Headlong where?” he asked.
“You know what I mean,” said Will, grinning.
Stanley just wanted him to say it. “You mean arse over tit?”
“If you like,” said Will, standing back up and catching the man’s eyes. “Are you in a good mood today?”
“I am. My daughter popped over again last night briefly. In fact, we had a takeaway together, it was quite nice for a change. Don’t normally touch Indian food, but she got me chicken something-or-other. Quite tasty.”
“Chicken something-or-other,” repeated Will. “I’ve heard it’s rather good, chicken something-or-other.”
“Stop taking the piss,” ordered Stanley. “Anyway, it was nice to see her twice in one week, I am honoured. She must be after my money, thinks I’m going to pop my clogs sometime soon. Not that I’ve got much, only the house.”
“I doubt it,” said Will as they ambled down the path together. He wondered briefly about any relative sorting through the mountains of old newspapers stored in his home. They’d need more than a domestic recycling bin for that lot when he left the earth. When he reached the car, he opened the rear door and waited for Stanley to shuffle along. It seemed odd, picking him up on a Sunday with no books in his hand to bore the long-term patients at the hospital with. His mood was different too. Maybe it was because he was involved in something, or maybe he quite liked Birdie and the prospect of
coffee and cake was having a positive effect on him.
“So, we’ve got the list,” said Stanley, leaning forward in his seat. He’d obviously not got his safety belt on.
Will noticed. “You’d better buckle up. It’s the law, even while I’m driving.”
“Okay,” he grumbled but did so anyway, not wanting to get Will in trouble if they were stopped. He started again. “Who is on this list, anyone we know?”
“I didn’t recognise any of the names actually, apart from the vicar and the sexton obviously. I don’t know any of the women, although I do know a Veronica, a different one, I’m guessing.”
“I used to know a Veronica too,” said Stanley, smiling.
Will caught the look as he glanced back via his rear-view mirror. “That sounds ominous,” he said.
“A looker she was. It was a long time ago, though, and I doubt it’s the same Veronica. She’d be about my age, I guess.”
“Well, maybe it is the same Veronica, maybe she volunteers at the church. It’s not a particularly common name.”
“I’d be very surprised if it was. I lost her at the Glastonbury festival back in 1970. Found a better suitor, I guess. Probably had bigger flares than me.”
“Ah, that’s a bit different then,” said Will as he navigated the thin early-morning traffic. Stanley in flares made him smile. He would have been a young man fifty years ago.
It didn’t take them long before they pulled up outside Birdie’s place. Stanley gazed out of the window at the big house. “Bloody hell,” he said. “She lives all alone in there, is she mad?”
Will grinned as he opened the car door then noticed Birdie standing in the front doorway, waiting for them both. “She likes the space, I guess,” said Will by way of explanation, and the two made their way inside and down towards the kitchen at the back. The house smelled of freshly brewing coffee and home baking and Stanley curled his nose up in delight.