Two - Harry York is found dead behind his business premises with an arrow through his heart. Poison was found around the entry point of the arrow.
Three - Maria Turnbull and Harry York knew one another, the extent of it yet unknown, but they were linked by Thornton School – Maria was a biology teacher there, and Harry was on the board of governors. The big question was, what connected Maria and Harry other than that fact? Was it to do with the school’s finances, or were they having an affair and their tryst was discovered by one of, or both, their respective partners? If that was the case, there was another suspect to add to the list – Harry York’s wife.
One thing Fielding realised as she was reading through the facts was that there were endless possibilities – and one or none of them may be true. She now wondered if Harry York’s wife and Maria Turnbull’s husband could be in cahoots with one another, to murder their cheating spouses, as unexpected or unlikely as that seemed. The whole thing was confusing and gave rise to more questions. If that were the case, why implicate the astrologer? A diversion, maybe? She felt the throbbing in her head start up again. Burton’s ‘puzzler’ was just that, a proper brain teasing conundrum.
She needed a break from all the information that was spinning frantically around in her brain. Fortunately, the other members of the team returned while she was still desperately trying to figure it out. Hopefully a group discussion would stop her brain fog. Burton stood back while she took the briefing.
Phillipa Preston started first, describing how she’d visited the Ministry of Justice and spoken to Barbara McKay and Selena Douglas’s bosses. They’d both been shocked by the death of one of their colleague’s friends, and couldn’t praise the two women’s’ employment with them highly enough. Barbara and Selena had been hard workers with exemplary records, with no worrying red flags at all. As somewhat expected under the circumstances, the women had both taken a period of compassionate leave away from work.
Likewise, Jane Francis reported the same of Caroline Watkins. She had been a dedicated solicitor, who never shirked from hard work. The partner Francis spoke to did agree that she occasionally ‘took over’, as he put it, but stressed that was down to her enthusiasm to do a good job. ‘A natural born leader’, he had added.
Following in the same pattern, Simon Banks confirmed that John Turnbull’s architectural firm saw him as an asset to the company in that he provided them with good, structured business plans and great conceptual work. In their opinion, Turnbull had been heading for a partnership in the next few years.
‘None of their employers or line managers reported any worries or concerns about any of them then?’ Fielding asked.
They all shook their heads.
‘They’re squeaky clean, it seems,’ Banks stated.
‘I don’t like squeaky clean,’ Burton interjected. ‘Sorry Fielding,’ he apologised for cutting in, ‘but I’m still bothered by that group of women. For one thing, why did Caroline Watkins arrange a night out to something she knew her friend was so against?’
‘Didn’t she say that she wasn’t aware of that when we spoke to them all?’
‘But that’s just my point, you see,’ he said excitedly. ‘How can you claim to be someone’s friend, best friend even, and not know something that important about them? I think that’s why it’s troubling me so much.’
‘But without any clear-cut motive, I’m not sure what else we can do in that respect except keep an eye on them,’ she replied, even though she doubted the resources they had would suffice to keep a constant watch on all four of them.
‘We’ll leave them up there on the board,’ he nodded towards it. ‘Call it a feeling, but I don’t think they’re being as honest as they could be with us.’
Fielding always trusted his hunches. It was then that she mentioned what she’d been thinking about Harry York’s wife and John Turnbull.
‘Well, it’s a possibility, I suppose,’ he pondered, not really wanting to add any more suspects to the already expanding list. But it had to be explored. ‘It’s probably worth looking into. Good work, Fielding, and good work team,’ he added, extending his praise to the other members. ‘I think this might be the point where we call it a night. Tomorrow we can sort through all the facts that we now have and try to apply logic to it.’
Everyone was glad of the welcome break.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
‘Do you want to come over for a takeaway?’ Fielding asked Burton as they exited the office after everyone else. She’d deliberately held back until the rest of the team had gone, not that it would have made a great deal of difference as everyone knew that they’d taken their relationship to the next level. But she’d rather ask him when they were alone.
‘Do I ever!’ he exclaimed, glad of a semblance of normality in this baffling case. A takeaway was always welcome to him despite, or maybe because of, the recent removal of his gallbladder. Having a treat now and again made it all the more enjoyable, even more so than before, and tonight he was certainly going to enjoy that option.
‘Your choice,’ Fielding said.
‘Well now, let me think about that!’ He parodied deep thought by bringing a hand to his face and extending his index finger along his chin.
Despite his mock-deliberation, Fielding knew what the choice would be, what it always was, either Chinese or Indian. The only question being, what was he going to go for tonight?
‘Would you like me to stay over as well?’ he asked almost sheepishly.
‘If you’re going to have a drink then I think it might be for the best, don’t you,’ she said, not that he needed an excuse for stopping over.
‘Then I’ll need to stop by mine to pick up a few things for the morning.’
‘No problem.’
The day had been heavy-going, so being together would take her mind off all of that until the next day. It was the distraction she desperately needed. Perhaps at some point in the future they’d finally go ahead and get a place of their own, eliminating the need for overnight bags and the like. It would be a great start, and she knew that her cats would love the option of a cat flap and the ability to go out and prowl around a garden instead of being stuck indoors all the time. Truth be told, she couldn’t wait to go ahead with it. But after the events of the past few days the one thing she would not be buying for her future garden were foxglove plants, for the cats’ sake.
After Burton had stopped at his and packed an overnight bag, they settled down in Fielding’s apartment to enjoy their Chinese meal and, in his case, a couple of beers, and a glass of sparkling fizz for her. Normally used to just the one human about the place, her two cats were having a field day with the extra person around. Vying for attention, they circled and purred relentlessly around Burton’s legs until they eventually calmed down and came to rest on one of the sofas, their eyes still watching the pair’s every move.
Perhaps somewhat expectedly, and despite all attempts to avoid it, when the meal ended the conversation turned to the case.
‘I had planned to leave this until the morning,’ Fielding began, ‘but the whole thing is constantly running through my mind; it’s driving me nuts!’
‘So, I can’t even distract you for the evening!’ Burton laughed, pulling her closer.
‘Well, you can distract me,’ she smiled, ‘but this is one hell of a strange case, you have to admit.’
‘We have solved some corkers over the years, so I have every confidence that we’ll get to the bottom of this one too.’
He was always the confident one, always certain that a criminal will make a big mistake that will finally get them. It was his whole philosophy, one that had served him well over the years.
‘Unless the average criminal is a MENSA genius, then they all make the same mistakes in the end,’ he reassured her. ‘And that’s how we catch them, by being one step ahead all the way and recognising where they’ve gone wrong.’
‘But, here’s a thought, what if the
y were a genius? I mean, just think of it, a criminal with a higher-than-usual IQ plans the perfect crime, taking into account all possible variants and outcomes. What do we do in a case like that?’
It was a fair question, and one which Burton had thought of on many occasions. Fortunately for them, they hadn’t come across one yet, but he always speculated that some day they might. What if this was that day?
‘Then I’d say we would do exactly what we do now, try to beat them at their own game.’
***
The next morning, the cats just couldn’t believe their luck that there were still two humans in the apartment with them. They did their figure of eight dance around Burton’s legs again, much to his amusement.
‘Are they always like this?’ he laughed, trying to avoid falling over them as he made his way to the kitchen.
‘Well, I don’t know,’ Fielding replied, ‘I don’t have any other men coming in apart from you!’
‘Touché.’
Fielding wasn’t one for eating much at breakfast time, preferring just a cup of tea, but Burton liked an early morning meal and demolished two slices of toast and scrambled eggs. Even though she loved her cappuccinos during the day, she found coffee far too harsh first thing in the morning, hence her regular habit of one cup of tea, with perhaps a small bowl of cereal. She dispensed with the cereal this morning, however.
‘Mmm, I must come here more often,’ Burton said, putting the last morsel into his mouth. ‘Great service, too!’
‘As long as you leave a tip on the table you can come again,’ she joked.
While getting dressed, a call came in on Fielding’s mobile from DC Summers.
‘Sorry to bother you, boss,’ he said to her, ‘but there’s been another murder.’
Fielding felt a chill run down her spine.
‘Similar circumstances?’ she asked, although neither of the two previous murders had any similarity apart from the poison.
‘Well, this one’s a bit different to the others; I’ll text you the address.’
‘What was that?’ Burton asked, coming out of the bathroom.
‘Summers. There’s been another death,’ she said, glancing at the address Summers had just sent her.
‘Where this time?’
‘The Quays.’
‘I’ve got to be in Ambleton’s office first thing; are you okay to go there yourself?’
‘Of course. I’m a very capable detective, I’ll have you know, and I can go out and about on my own now and again!’ It was said in a jokily fashion, but Fielding was anything but laughing on the inside.
Another day, another death, and, by the sound of it, linked to the other two. The bodies were piling up, as were the suspects. She wondered just who the new victim was and how, if at all, they were related to the other two.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Sally Fielding pulled up on Broadway behind the two police cars already present, their blue lights still turned on and flashing out of sync with one another. A visual warning for people to keep away, although, despite this, or perhaps because of it, a few people gathered further along the road watching, curious to find out what had happened. As she walked past the vehicles, she saw a man sitting in the back seat of the first car. He must have been the one who found the body; a jogger, judging by his clothing, out on an early morning run. One of the officers in the front seat was holding a clip board, making notes on an incident form. It was never easy for anyone who came across a dead body, and the man in the back looked drawn and haggard from his experience.
Police tape was stretched across the entire width of the road, with a constable standing in front of it to keep any members of the public at bay. He made a move to walk towards her as she drew nearer. But as soon as she produced her warrant card, he realised that she wasn’t another gawker, and he lifted up the tape for her to walk under.
‘There’s a path leading down to the bank,’ he said almost apologetically, indicating a gap in the fencing. ‘The others are already there.’
Fielding assumed that the ‘others’ he was referring to was the CSI team, but she knew for a fact that Jack Summers was also down there.
Following the police constable’s instructions, she went through the gap and along a canal side path to where she could see the white tent erected. Several people were working on the area around it, including Summers, who on seeing her stopped what he was doing and sprinted across to join her.
‘Who’s the pathologist?’ she asked after bidding him a good morning.
‘Ben Adamson,’ Summers said. ‘He seems to get his fair share of them, doesn’t he?’
‘He seems to get a fair share of ours, that’s for sure.’ Although it was said light-heartedly, there was no joy at all in coming to a crime scene.
Pulling the tent flap to one side, Fielding entered, closely followed by her colleague.
‘Good morning, Sally,’ Dr Adamson said when he saw her enter, rising as he did so.
Fielding returned his greeting. ‘What have we got?’ she asked looking down at the body on the ground.
‘It looks like a straightforward drowning,’ he said, ‘but in light of the recent events I’ll refrain from diagnosing until I get him back to the morgue for an autopsy.’
‘So why do you think this might be connected to the others?’
Adamson bent down and took an evidence pouch from his case, then handed it to her.
There was a blank slip of paper inside. Fearing the worst, she turned it over. This time she recognised what was on it: the astrological symbol for the birth sign for Pisces. She knew it as it was her mother’s. Appropriate, as the man had been found in water.
‘Was there any identification on the body?’ Fielding asked, still staring at the symbol.
‘That’s the funny thing,’ the medic replied, ‘nothing at all, not even a wallet or phone.’
‘Could they have ended up in the water?’ Summers speculated.
‘Yes, it’s a possibility they could have,’ Adamson agreed. ‘But if I could hazard a guess, I’d say that they were removed from the body prior to, or even after death, in order to put you at a disadvantage.’
‘So, you’re definitely thinking deliberate?’ Fielding asked.
‘That is possible but, as I say, let’s see what the autopsy turns up. We’re just about done here. I’ll perform it at 10 a.m., so if you’d like to come over, we can see what’s going on with him.’
Fielding hadn’t expected to be attending another autopsy so soon, but told him that she’d be sure to be there on time.
On the way back to her vehicle, she stopped by the police car and said that she wished to speak to the witness.
‘What’s his name?’ Fielding asked the police constable.
‘Frank Wilson,’ came the reply.
As she opened the door and slipped into the back seat alongside him, she could see that he was still shaking. She also noticed that, from the look of his clothes, he had not been in the water. There was no more than normal joggers’ sweat on his top.
‘Frank,’ she said but there was no reaction. On the second time she spoke he answered.
‘Yes?’ the young man asked weakly.
‘Exactly where was the gentleman when you found him, can you tell me?’
‘He was just lying there, on the path. I did bend down to check if he was okay, but then I saw his face and I knew that . . .’ his voice trailed off, and his eyes took on a vacant look again.
‘And you were out jogging, is that right?’
He nodded.
‘That’s okay, Frank,’ she said, placing a hand on his arm. He jumped in surprise. She turned to the constable, ‘You’ve taken a statement?’ He confirmed it.
‘In that case it might be wise to take Mr Wilson home.’
She turned back to Frank. ‘If we need to ask you any more questions we’ll be in touch.’
The man nodded again, but she wasn’t entirely sure t
hat he’d heard her.
***
As soon as Fielding and Summers returned to base, she asked her new partner to print off the photographs he’d taken of the body and the symbol in order to pin them up on the board alongside the others.
‘Not another one!’ Phillipa Preston exclaimed. ‘Who is it this time?’
‘That’s the one thing we don’t know; there was no identification on him.’
‘I guess we’ll have to wait until his fingerprints have been tracked then.’
‘If he’s in the system, that is.’ Fielding had the feeling that their victim might not be, given the lengths the killer had gone to remove anything which could have identified him straight away.
‘I think it might be an idea to quickly check through the social media friends of everyone up there on the board, Madame Ortiz excepted as she only has a business page and not a personal one,’ Fielding said more to her herself than anyone present, but then instructed DCs Francis, Preston and Banks to do just that.
‘It’s only a thought,’ she said, ‘but try cross-referencing to see if there are any commonalities among them. There’s bound to be a few, but let’s see if anything in particular stands out. Jack, you can come along with me to the autopsy at 10 a.m. Perhaps Dr Adamson can enlighten us a bit more as to whether our John Doe was poisoned prior to his death.’
Summers was a bit like Fielding when it came to viewing a post mortem. Although knowing that they were vital, they both disliked attending, preferring to leave that entirely to the pathologist. But there were rules, so go they must. And on this occasion, it was a good thing they did.
It was not usual for any pathologist to provide more than a verbal commentary of their findings to those in the viewing area, but on this occasion, Dr Adamson felt obliged to add some of his own observations.
‘I know that you’re both the detectives here,’ Adamson announced, giving Fielding and Summers a quick glance on the viewing platform while he continued with the examination, ‘but I often wonder how some cases come to arrive on my dissection table. It gets me thinking. In this poor soul’s case, I wonder how he came to be at that particular spot on the canal. I can already confirm that he did drown, judging by the water content of his lungs, but that being the case, why was his body hauled up onto the side of it? If I was the killer, I’d have left him in there, let him either sink or drift down to one of the locks. Which raises the question, did he actually drown at that spot or did it happen somewhere else?’
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