by Marion Todd
‘Anything significant?’ she asked.
‘Not much yet,’ he said. ‘Place is pretty tidy. No evidence of forced entry. Some snacks in bowls on a coffee table so we’ll take them away and check for DNA. I’m not convinced it is a suspicious death but we’ll check anyway. There is one thing, though…’
‘Yes?’
‘In the kitchen – we found a cork from a wine bottle. And the corkscrew sitting beside it.’
‘Do you think she got drunk and fell asleep in the bath?’
‘As to that, you’ll have to wait for the post-mortem. See how much alcohol’s in her system. But that’s not what I meant.’
Clare waited.
‘We’ve had a good look round and can’t find the bottle. No glasses in the sink either – or the dishwasher.’
‘Neighbour says she was very tidy. She’ll have washed up. Put the glasses away, no?’
‘If she was that tidy, Clare, why leave the cork and corkscrew out? And would someone drunk enough to fall asleep in the bath manage to wash and dry her wine glass, never mind dispose of the bottle?’
Clare considered this for a moment then said, ‘What about recycling? She might have a bag of bottles somewhere.’
‘Way ahead of you. There’s a bag in the utility room but only one bottle and it’s a screw cap. And no bottle in the fridge or anywhere else, as far as we can see.’
‘Checked the bin?’
‘Yep. Nothing there, although we’ve not been right through the contents yet. But the cork and corkscrew being on the kitchen table suggests she had the wine recently. So even if she did put the bottle in the bin it would be at the top.’
Clare fell silent again. Was there something here? Or was Raymond reading too much into a carelessly discarded wine cork? If Tanya Sullivan was to be believed, Alison Reid wasn’t the carelessly discarding type. ‘Okay, Raymond. Best check the rest of the bin. Let me know if you find the bottle. What about the body?’
‘You’ve had a look, yeah?’
‘Just a peep. Fully suited up, of course.’
He laughed. ‘I’m not accusing you, Clare.’
‘So?’
‘Well, it’ll be the pathologist’s call but I’d say she’s been there a maybe a couple of days. The abdomen’s distended which suggests putrefaction and there’s a tidemark round the bath above the current water level.’
‘The body gases have raised her up, allowing the water level to drop.’
‘You’re learning! We’ll make a scientist of you yet, Clare.’
‘And her neck – any thoughts on the marks?’
Raymond’s brow clouded. ‘It’ll be easier to see once they have her at the mortuary. But there definitely is some bruising.’
‘So she could have been strangled…’
Raymond hesitated. Then he said, ‘I think you need the pathologist’s opinion on that, Clare. I wouldn’t like to commit myself. The bruising – I’m not sure it’s enough for strangulation, unless she really was so drunk that she didn’t put up a struggle. But even then…’
‘Okay, Raymond. Thanks for that. Let me know if there’s anything else once you’re done please.’
‘Will do, Clare.’
‘Mind if I just…’
‘As long as you’re careful. You know the drill. Touch nothing, take nothing.’
Leaving Raymond to his photographer, Clare moved carefully through the house. The safety conscious part of her wanted to switch off the Christmas tree lights but she resisted the urge. The sitting room was tidy enough, similar in size to Tanya Sullivan’s house next door but Clare couldn’t help thinking how two people can make the same room look quite different. Instead of the large dark blue sofas there was a small two-seater in a dark red fabric, dotted with cushions, and two occasional chairs, different from the two-seater. There was a TV set but it sat inconspicuously in a corner, the remote control on a nearby shelf. One wall was lined with bookcases and Clare’s eyes flicked across, taking in Alison’s eclectic choice of reading matter: from Jane Austen to Kingsley Amis; Lonely Planet travel guides, political biographies and books by Ben Goldacre. Clare thought she might have liked Alison Reid.
She turned away from the bookcases and her eye fell on the coffee table – solid oak with chunky legs. It was clutter-free, apart from a copy of the Christmas Radio Times and two bowls of snacks. She wondered about that. There were pistachios in a bowl but no empty shells. Peering down at the carpet she could see a few crumbs had been dropped from the Bombay Mix. Maybe they would get something from the bowls. She had to hope so. She looked round the room once more then moved through to the dining room. The table was clear, apart from a laptop and a poinsettia, now drooping for the want of water. A light wood sideboard stood against one wall and Clare saw that none of the furniture matched. The sideboard didn’t look new and she wondered if it was a family heirloom or if Alison had been reduced to furnishing this house from one of the growing number of second-hand shops. Maybe Miles Sharp had played awkward when it had come to dividing up their possessions. Or maybe she preferred recycled furniture. Judging by the contents of her bookshelves, Alison Reid was someone who cared about the planet.
She glanced in the kitchen and saw it was serviceable enough. Probably the original cupboards from when the house was built. It was miles away from Tanya Sullivan’s kitchen with its integrated appliances and modern units, but it was clean and well cared for. A SOCO officer was bagging the wine cork and the corkscrew and Clare drew back so she wasn’t in his way. Something caught her eye and she bent to peer at the oven.
‘Something in there, I think,’ she said and the SOCO officer nodded.
She made her way back out into the hall and ascended the stairs. There were two rooms furnished as bedrooms and a smaller one which appeared to be a study. Clare stepped carefully into the room. It was built into the eaves and surprisingly bright for such a small space. The only window was a small Velux above Clare’s head. She looked up and saw snow sliding slowly down the glass, allowing a shaft of sunlight into the room. A bookcase stood against the wall below the window, filled with books which Clare assumed were related to her work. There were tax manuals, books on accounting principles and a guide to Excel spreadsheets. A Pukka pad sat on the desk with a tray of pens and paperclips to the side. Clare smiled at a coaster bearing the words,
There are 3 kinds of accountants in the world:
Those who can count and those who can’t
To the right of the desk was a sturdy shelf holding a row of neatly labelled lever arch files. Clare studied the labels: Bank Statements, Bills, Legal Correspondence, Training Courses… all perfectly normal. She stepped carefully back out of the room and opened a door to the right.
Alison’s bedroom was painted in a pale lavender shade, carpeted in a grey flecked pattern. The matching bedding and curtains were a deeper shade of lilac and Clare thought they were vaguely familiar. Marks & Spencer, maybe? She wasn’t sure. She glanced round the room and saw it was as tidy as the rest of the house. A paperback sat on a bedside table, alongside a radio alarm clock and a pair of reading glasses. A cream dressing gown hung on a hook on the back of the door, reminding Clare of Tanya’s comment about Alison’s clothes, carelessly discarded on the bathroom floor.
The other room had a bed and a chest of drawers but otherwise was unfurnished. Looking round, Clare thought Alison couldn’t have had many house guests.
She made her way back down the stairs, reflecting on the house and its occupant, now lying dead in the bath. Nothing in these rooms particularly matched. Some of the furniture had seen better days. And yet Clare thought she would have felt more at home here in these simply put-together rooms than in the newly carpeted house next door.
Outside, Chris was on the phone, scribbling something on his hand. As Clare approached he ended the call.
‘Got the address for Miles Sharp.’
‘And the care home?’
He shook his head. ‘I spoke to the manager. The mother’
s dementia is pretty advanced. She doesn’t think the news would sink in. I’ve asked her to let us know if there’s any change.’
Clare glanced at her watch. It was eleven already. ‘Alison Reid’s work won’t be open until tomorrow at the earliest. Let’s call on the ex-husband. I’m not sure how much he’ll be able to help after five years but it’s worth a shot.’
Chapter 6
Buchanan Gardens was a pleasant road to the west of St Andrews, dotted with individually designed houses set in substantial gardens. Tall trees screened the houses from passers-by and Claire drove slowly along while Chris looked for the house Alison Reid had once shared with Miles Sharp. Clare presumed he shared it with Cheryl Lafferty, now. The new Mrs Sharp.
‘Here,’ Chris said suddenly. ‘Just reverse back and it’s that one there – behind the fence.’
Clare backed the car up and, seeing there was no gate on the drive, pulled it in off the road. She crunched over the gravel, past a substantial double garage until she was opposite the front door. They stepped out of the car and surveyed the house. It was a fairly new building but had been designed to look as if it dated from the 1920s. It was finished in a white render and the substantial arched front entrance was bordered on either side by two bow walls with leaded windows. The upper floor windows were hooded by canopies, probably zinc, Clare thought. And above the front door was a rose window in stained glass.
‘Pseudo Arts and Crafts,’ Clare muttered, locking the car.
‘Eh?’
‘The house. They’ve tried to make it look like an Arts and Crafts house but they’ve tried a bit too hard.’
‘Listen to you,’ Chris said. ‘Dating an expert in architecture is finally starting to rub off on you.’
Clare’s brow creased as she thought of Geoffrey, now back in Boston. She really must do something about it. End it, once and for all. But if she did end things with Geoff, what would she have left?
She turned her attention back to the house. A woman with blonde hair was standing at a window, openly observing them. ‘Come on – let’s see if the Sharps are at home.’
As they moved towards the entrance the woman disappeared. Clare rang the bell and, after a few seconds, the blonde woman opened the door. She glanced over their heads to Clare’s car then back at Clare. Her expression was not encouraging.
‘Yes?’
This, Clare decided must be the new Mrs Sharp – Cheryl Lafferty, who had been carrying on with Miles Sharp under his wife’s nose. She was younger than Alison. Late twenties, maybe. Her blonde hair was thick and lustrous, curling down past her shoulders. She had an attractive face but her lips were pressed together and her eyes hostile. She was dressed simply but expensively in a cream polo neck, camel-coloured trousers and brown suede boots. Her left hand rested on the edge of the door as if barring the way and Clare couldn’t help but notice the enormous diamond ring next to a white-gold wedding band.
She held out her warrant card and introduced herself and Chris.
The woman stood her ground. ‘You’ve still not said why you’re here.’
‘Are you Mrs Sharp? Mrs Cheryl Sharp?’
‘What if I am?’
They had only been on the doorstep a few seconds and already Clare was tiring of Cheryl Sharp’s hostility. ‘Is Mr Sharp at home?’
‘Yes.’
‘We’d like to speak to him,’ Clare said.
Cheryl hesitated then she stood back to admit them. ‘You’d better come in, then.’
As they entered the hall, a bundle of something small and white came barking towards them.
‘Pixie,’ Cheryl snapped, ‘behave!’
Pixie stopped in her tracks but continued to snarl at Clare and Chris as Cheryl led them into a sitting room. It was a large square room with two corner sofas arranged around an enormous coffee table on which lay a stack of celebrity gossip magazines. A Harrods Christmas coffee mug sat on a gold hexagonal coaster, a half-eaten box of chocolates next to it.
‘Sit down, if you want,’ Cheryl said, without enthusiasm. ‘I’ll get him.’
She left the room but Pixie stood her ground, emitting the odd growl.
Chris fixed the dog with his eye. ‘Come anywhere near me,’ he said, his voice low, ‘and I’ll kick you right across that sofa.’
While Chris psyched out the dog, Clare studied the room. The laminate flooring was broken up with thick rugs in geometric patterns. Cream-shaded lamps burned on small tables, giving the room a warm glow. There were abstract prints on the walls and Clare inclined her head, trying to work out what they were meant to be; but she could make nothing of them. She couldn’t help comparing this expensively furnished house with Alison Reid’s, just a few miles away. Alison’s furniture was perhaps second-hand – it had certainly seen better days – but her sitting room, easily half the size of this room, was somehow more interesting. There was that wall of books, the ill-matched but attractive selection of cushions, and a sense of it being a home. Not a show house like this, but a home.
Her eye fell on a side table on which stood a framed photograph taken at Miles and Cheryl’s wedding. Cheryl was turned away from the camera, her arm on Miles’s shoulder, presumably to show off the back of her dress which was cut away in a deep V, down to her waist. Clare moved closer to study the photo but the door opened, interrupting her perusal. Miles Sharp entered, with Cheryl behind. Pixie started to yap and Cheryl moved to pick her up, making soothing sounds.
He strode across the room, hand held out. His smile was as broad as it was insincere. He was a little taller than Clare and perhaps a few years older. Older than Cheryl, certainly. Early forties, maybe. His hair was surprisingly dark – no stranger to the dye bottle, then – and his face, bony and lined, bore evidence of regular sunbed use. He was casually dressed in navy jeans and a fine grey sweater with a tiny Ralph Lauren logo. He indicated one of the sofas and sat down on the arm of the other. Clare wondered if he had deliberately taken up a higher position. A man used to dominating the room.
‘Officers, this is an unexpected pleasure. How can I help? No trouble at the office, I hope?’ The smile was still fixed, his words glib and practised.
Cheryl, still holding Pixie, sat down next to her husband, her mouth set in a hard line.
Clare watched the pair carefully. Then she said, ‘I’m afraid I have some bad news, Mr Sharp. About your ex-wife, Alison.’
There was the tiniest flicker of something in Miles Sharp’s eyes. Clare wasn’t sure what it was, but it was definitely there. And then it was gone.
‘Alison?’ he said. ‘But I’m not sure how that concerns…’
‘I’m afraid Alison was found dead this morning.’
For a moment Miles Sharp seemed at a loss. Then he opened his mouth to speak but Cheryl cut across him.
‘Sorry, Inspector, but I don’t really see how this concerns Miles. It’s five years since they were divorced. So it’s really nothing to do with us, is it?’ She stuck out her chin, her expression obdurate.
Clare regarded her. There was clearly no love lost here but, even so, it was a pretty hard-headed reaction. Miles, on the other hand, seemed to be struggling for the right response. And then he recovered himself.
‘What my wife means, officers, is that we didn’t really have anything to do with Alison. Not for some years now. I mean it’s very sad of course.’ He turned to Cheryl and took her hand. ‘I’m sure we’re both very sorry to hear it, aren’t we honey?’
Cheryl said nothing.
‘We’ll send flowers,’ he said suddenly. ‘For old times’ sake. I mean she was my wife for a few years…’ He seemed to be running out of things to say.
Clare forced a smile. ‘I do realise it’s some years since you were married to Alison,’ she said smoothly, ‘but I’m afraid her mother is too ill to help us with our enquiries so we’re trying to find out as much as we can from those who knew her well.’
This seemed to relax Miles and he smiled back. ‘Of course, Inspector. Please ask an
ything you wish.’
Clare flicked a glance at Cheryl then turned back to Miles. ‘I understand Alison worked for you at Sharp and Lafferty but that she subsequently left to work with another firm.’
Miles Sharp spread his hands. ‘You can imagine how awkward it was, Inspector. With the divorce and all that…’
‘And of course you were engaged in a relationship with Mrs Sharp at the time,’ Clare said smoothly, ‘were you not?’
‘So?’ Cheryl said. ‘Not a crime, is it? People get married, they split up. It wasn’t my fault Miles looked elsewhere, you know.’
Oh wasn’t it, Clare thought. She could just picture it. Miles with the wandering eye was easy prey for someone like Cheryl. She had set her cap at him and she didn’t care who she hurt in the process.
‘And like I said,’ Cheryl went on, ‘it’s nothing to do with us.’
Miles was frowning. Perhaps the penny had dropped, Clare thought.
‘What is it,’ he said, choosing his words carefully, ‘that you want from me? Was Alison’s death not…’ he tailed off, apparently struggling for the right words.
Clare waited a few seconds before answering, watching them. She saw Cheryl flick a glance at her husband.
‘It’s possible Alison’s death wasn’t due to natural causes,’ she said. ‘We won’t know for sure until the post-mortem has been carried out but, in the meantime, we’re trying to find out a bit more about her. She lived alone, you see, so we need your help to build up a picture of her life. Perhaps you could start by telling me the last time you saw Alison.’
And there it was again. That flicker in Miles’s eyes. Was he hiding something?
He scratched his head. ‘That’s a tough one. I’m not really sure. Maybe at a conference?’
‘And when was that, sir?’ Chris said, his tone pleasant.
Miles turned to look at Chris. ‘Erm, you know, I’m not even sure it was a conference. Perhaps I saw her in the supermarket. Saturday morning shopping. Or at the recycling place. We like to do our bit for the planet, don’t we honey?’