‘You’d have made a good detective, doctor,’ Fielding said.
‘Over the years I have read quite a number of crime fiction where the main character does both.’
‘So they do,’ she laughed, having read quite a few herself.
‘We did take a sample of the water from the canal at that point, so I’m going to go ahead and compare that with the lung content.’
‘So, you’re thinking that he might have been killed elsewhere then?’ Summers asked.
‘It has been known to happen. Best to check, I think.’
‘Good idea.’ Whichever way this went, Fielding wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest, and it was good that Dr Adamson was being as thorough as he possibly could be. They were very lucky to have two very good forensic pathologists in the area, with Frank Collinson being the other one. But if the victim had been killed elsewhere, why then dump him beside the canal? Did the murderer think that the water would not be checked? Perhaps not, as Fielding herself wouldn’t have immediately considered it. Maybe it was just to link it to the astrological sign that was found on the body?
‘I look forward to the results,’ she said to Adamson, although she feared that wouldn’t make the case any easier.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
‘The latest victim’s name is Norman Bishop,’ Preston announced, writing his name on the board under his picture.
‘Who is he and how did you find him?’ Fielding asked, rising from her seat and walking over towards the board.
‘I did as you asked and went through all the suspects’ public information. He’s on Caroline Watkins’s list of social media friends.’
‘Interesting.’
‘What on earth is going on?’ Summers appeared perplexed by the whole thing. He wasn’t the only one.
‘Phillipa, do a quick check for me, will you? It’s just a thought, but see if Norman Bishop by any remote chance knows Harry York.’
‘Will do.’
‘What are you thinking?’ Summers asked. Fielding smiled to herself as that was what she normally asked Burton.
‘I’m just wondering if he’s on the school’s Board of Governors as well. If he is, then there’s a clear link to all three victims and the school.’
‘So, it could all be to do with the school finances?’
‘It could be.’
‘But what about the astrological symbols left on two of the bodies?’
‘That’s something I don’t yet understand,’ Fielding admitted, ‘other than trying to shift our attention and the blame onto Madame Ortiz.’
‘Does she have a connection to the school?’ Summers raised a good point.
‘We’ll also have to look into that.’
‘I can do that if you like,’ he volunteered. ‘I can ring the Head and ask her.’
Fielding gave him the go ahead. About fifteen minutes later she had the answer to both questions. Sadly, not the ones she’d hoped for. Norman Bishop didn’t know Harry York, a fact confirmed by the latter’s widow; and Marilyn Parkinson, aka Madame Ortiz, had no connection whatsoever to the school.
‘Well, there’s that theory gone,’ Fielding sighed. ‘We’ll have to approach it from another angle.’ Although she had no idea what that angle would be.
‘We’re still waiting to hear from forensic accounting regarding the school’s financial records,’ Summer reminded her.
‘That we are. I’m hoping that’s the answer, but I’m not holding my breath somehow.’
Summers asked her why she thought that.
‘I can’t really put my finger on it, but I think I’ve somehow inherited Burton’s penchant for hunches. Something just doesn’t sit right with me; I can’t say what simply because I don’t know. But I’m certain somebody wants us to think that Madame Ortiz is involved in this, at least that’s the way I’m seeing it. The question is, why?’
***
I think it’s going well, the text message read.
The plan seems to be working, came the reply.
We’ve just got to keep our cool and make sure we have our wits about us.
We can do that.
Can’t wait for this all to be over.
Me too!
***
Fielding’s fears were realised when Summers received a call back from forensic accounting. Everything was in order, nothing hidden or misplaced; the records were clean. Squeaky clean. Why was everybody coming across as such? Unless, of course, that was what they were? Could all the suspects be pawns in someone else’s game, and was this now an option to consider? To add to it all, the water in the lungs of victim number three, Norman Bishop, wasn’t from the canal, or any other external body of water. In Dr Adamson’s professional opinion, the water was common or garden tap water. From this he concluded that Mr Bishop had met his demise in a domestic setting, far away from the way he’d been presented in the canal.
‘So, you’re saying that somebody drowned him in a tub of water then moved his body to the canal to be found there?’ Fielding asked the pathologist.
‘Or in a kitchen or bathroom sink – perhaps even a toilet bowl. I would consider that to be the only explanation. As you know, the water in the canal comes in from the Mersey Estuary near Liverpool, so is saline. Easily discernible from your tap water.’
‘Wouldn’t the murderer know that, though?’
‘They might, but, then again, maybe not. Some people consider water to be water in a case of drowning, often not considering or even knowing the differences.’
‘Burton and I were contemplating the IQ of criminals the other day. If the murderer had a high IQ, wouldn’t he have considered this?’
‘Interesting point. It might depend upon the moment, I suppose. Maybe an intelligent criminal would be able to plan the perfect murder but then be unable to execute it with the same precision. I don’t know, Sally, I’m a simple doctor who cuts dead people up and not a trained psychologist; it might be best to ask one of them.’
Fielding thanked him. He’d made an interesting point about asking a psychologist, and she knew exactly where to find one. Preston’s partner was highly revered in the profession, and had been helpful when called in before. Perhaps this was the time to engage her services again. She’d have to get the clearance from DCI Ambleton, but as Louise Simmons had been an asset to the team in the past, she didn’t think there’d be any objection to bringing her in for another consultation.
Following on from that bombshell, Fielding thought it only pertinent to pay a visit to their latest victim’s home. Even if Norman Bishop’s wife hadn’t been at home at the time of the murder, surely, she would have noticed something out of place in the bathroom, or in any other room with a source of water, no matter how hard the killer would have tried to tidy it up? Bishop wasn’t a slender man, so he must have put up a fight unless, of course, Fielding mused, he had been rendered unable to fight back. From what they knew so far about the murders, perhaps he, too, had been poisoned. Could there be traces of digitalis in his body too? She quickly rang Adamson and posed the question.
‘I’m still waiting for the toxicology results to come back, but that’s a possibility.’
‘Do you think that if he was poisoned one person, say a woman, could have drowned him?’
‘Well, Mr Bishop was quite well-built as you know, so I’d say she’d have to be strong. A tranquillized or poisoned body would be dead weight so additionally difficult in that respect.’
‘But one man, or two people even, would be able to do it?’
‘I’d say a strong man would, yes. As for two people, that would make it a lot easier. Two men, or a man and a woman together, they’d be able to manage it easily enough I imagine.’
Fielding thanked him again. The answer posed a new question: was the murder acting on their own, or did they have an accomplice? It just added to the complexities of the case.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
As everybody else was busy wor
king on the task of trying to find the common denominator between the victims apart from the poison, Fielding went on her own to see Mrs Bishop. As she was distressed by the sudden death of her husband, Mrs Bishop’s sister had temporarily moved in to be with her and offer support.
‘Is this really necessary right now?’ the sister asked. Fielding had faced objection before, but appreciated how the family must be feeling right now. She’d experienced it herself in the past, had first-hand knowledge of what it was like to be informed that a loved one had died. All anybody wanted at that time was to be left alone. This, however, wasn’t a natural death, and in order to find the murderer, it was necessary to ask questions as early in the investigation as possible.
‘I’m afraid it is,’ Fielding said, keeping her own emotions in check.
‘Do you know what it’s like to lose somebody?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact I do.’
The sister appeared stunned, but then seemed to realise what she’d asked.
‘Look . . . I’m . . .’ she began in a softened tone, but Fielding held up a hand to stop her.
‘We’re treating this as a murder enquiry . . . Mrs?’
‘My name is Andrea Fuller,’ the woman offered, having composed herself a bit, ‘but it’s Miss, not Mrs.’
‘We need to act quickly, under the circumstances. I just have one question to ask your sister then I’ll be on my way. May I see her?’
‘Yes, yes, of course. She’s upstairs in her bedroom. I’ll go and fetch her for you.’
‘No, that’s all right, please don’t bring her down. I can easily go up.’
As Miss Fuller led the way up the stairs, Fielding glanced around. Although she hadn’t seen the man at his best, she guessed Mr Bishop had been in his late forties, early fifties. The decor seemed to fit that estimation. It had a middle-aged look and feel about it. It looked eclectic and lived-in, scattered with photographs and treasured memorabilia of the couple’s life together.
‘Do they have any children?’ Fielding asked.
‘No, it’s just . . . well, it was just the two of them. I don’t know how she’s going to get through this, I really don’t.’
Fielding felt like saying that she would, in time, but refrained from doing so. It wouldn’t have helped, even though she knew it to be the case.
Mrs Bishop was trying to sit up in bed as they entered the room, having heard the doorbell and the voices coming up from downstairs. Her sister hurried to her side and told her who Fielding was; from the vague look in her eyes, she looked as if she’d already received medical help from her GP.
‘I’m sorry to have to do this, Mrs Bishop, but it’s imperative that I ask you something.’
The lady nodded as her sister put her arm around her shoulders.
‘When did you last see your husband?’
There was a long pause, as if she was trying to organise her thoughts before speaking. And when she spoke it was slow and lumbering.
‘It . . . was . . . yesterday . . . morning,’ she replied.
‘You didn’t see him last night?’
‘No . . . no . . . he was away on business . . . and wasn’t due back until . . . this evening.’ At that point she broke down and her sister looked towards Fielding for compassion.
‘Okay, that’s all. Thank you. I’m sorry for having to come to see you like this. Before I go, though, it may seem like an odd question but please bear with me on this, do you think I might take a look at your bathroom?’
Both women gave her a strange look, but Mrs Bishop said that was okay, asking her sister to show Fielding where it was.
As bathrooms go it was a little larger than average and quite modern, with the sink affixed into a vanity unit and the toilet set into the wall. The bath itself was one of those freestanding double-ended slipper ones with the taps fitted centrally. The whole room looked in stark contrast to the decor of the rest of the house. Perhaps they’d been revamping, starting with this room first? Lifting the mat, Fielding carefully examined the floor underneath it and around the base of the tub for any traces of displaced water. None was evident. She did the same around the wash basin but, again, the floor was dry. Likewise with the base of the toilet. If Norman Burton had been away on business overnight, chances were that was where he would have been killed; not here. She needed to find out where he’d been. If they were quick enough, and lucky enough, the killer may have left some evidence behind. Satisfied that Bishop had not died there, she went back into the bedroom.
‘Can you tell me where your husband worked please, Mrs Bishop?’
‘He was a planning officer with the local council.’
‘And what was the meeting about that he went to yesterday?’
‘Detective Inspector!’ The sister again pleaded, seeing that this was causing more stress to his widow.
‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ Fielding said, looking at her, ‘but this is the last thing, I assure you.’
‘He said it was a seminar on planning, but you’ll have to ask them down at the Town Hall for the details.’
‘I will,’ she said, noting the urgency to end the questioning. ‘Again, thank you for your time.’
The sister moved to rise from the bed, but Fielding stopped her.
‘No, I’ll show myself out, you stay here with your sister.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Norman Bishop’s boss, Sam Younger, sat behind a well-stocked desk in his office on the second floor of the council building. Behind him, a row of alphabetically-labelled metal filing cabinets filled the entire width of the room. The only personal touch appeared to be the lone aloe vera plant sitting on top of them. It looked healthy enough, but seemed strangely out of place.
Younger had already heard about Norman’s death from his wife’s sister who, acting upon the instructions of Mrs Bishop, had called him. He hadn’t attended the seminar with his employee, but several others from the department had and Younger had already informed them of the tragic news. Subsequently, the meeting had been cut short and the five men and women were returning back to the office, due in some time after lunch.
‘I may need to speak to them when they return,’ Fielding said.
‘Yes, of course.’ Norman seemed to be a well-appreciated member of staff, as Younger appeared visibly upset by the news of his employee’s death.
‘Can I ask you where the seminar was?’
‘In Blackburn, at the Premier Hotel.’
In order to get the room checked, Fielding briefly excused herself while she took out her phone and rang Summers, instructing him to travel there as soon as possible.
‘Get his room at the hotel thoroughly checked over, will you? And get somebody from CSI to accompany you. Make sure they pay particular attention to every nook and cranny in the bathroom.’
‘Sure thing, boss.’
‘And make sure nobody gains access to that room before you do, including a cleaner. Get management to block it off as soon as possible.’
She then turned her attention back to Bishop’s boss. ‘Can I ask you if you know someone called Caroline Watkins? I believe she knew Norman.’
‘Caroline? Yes, I know her, and so did Norman. She’s one of our local government legal advisers. Why? What does she have to do with this?’
‘It’s just that one of Caroline’s close friends has just died, and there’s a similarity in the way in which they died.’
Younger frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘No, we’re not quite sure what the connection is ourselves yet. Had Caroline and Norman been working on anything legal recently?’
‘Well, yes, they had actually. About a week ago she came in to draw up a couple of documents for us, to do with the public tenancies we oversee.’
‘Would it be possible to take a look at them?’
‘Of course. I’ll get my assistant to bring them in for you.’
Younger leaned forward and picked up his phone. Punchin
g in a few numbers, he waited until it was answered then asked for the Northern Quarter file.
Fielding’s ears immediately pricked up on that. She had heard correctly, hadn’t she? It could just be pure coincidence, but the Northern Quarter was where Madame Ortiz had her business premises.
Younger’s secretary knocked on the door and he called her in. She smiled at Fielding as she handed the file over to her boss, then promptly left again. He opened the manila folder and took out the top document.
‘This is what they were working on, detective,’ he said, as he gave her three sheets of paper stapled together.
As Fielding read the document, she saw that it was a tenancy renewal statement for several business properties. The one thing that interested her the most was the fact that Madame Ortiz’s address was one of them. Seeing that, she skipped to the last page. The document had been signed by both Caroline Watkins and Norman Bishop.
‘And would Caroline and Norman have had to visit each of the premises to see the owners?’ she asked.
‘Yes, they would, and they did. We have the individual tenancies if you’d like to look at a specific one?’
‘Yes please,’ Fielding replied, still trying to take it in, ‘it’s the one registered to a Ms Marilyn Parkinson.’
There must have been around ten separate documents in there judging by the bulldog clips on each of them, and Younger stopped when he came to the one he needed.
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