Blue Murder

by Staincliffe, Cath

  She wouldn’t have put it quite like that.

  ‘I’m hoping forensics will narrow it down. And we’ve the Press Conference and line-up tomorrow, if we can get Ferdie Gibson in.’

  ‘Who’s top of your list, Janine?’ He managed to make her name sound like an insult. She hesitated. Was he expecting her to back up her hunch with reasoned arguments or was he just after her gut feeling? She thought of Ferdie, broadcasting his hatred for Tulley, handy with a knife. Then Lesley Tulley, to all intents and purposes the grieving widow.

  ‘I know we’ve motive and a possible sighting for Gibson but I’m not convinced, sir.’

  ‘Women’s intuition?’

  Janine rated the skills she had in reading people: the ability to decode the patterns of words and silences, interpret body language, pick up on the tiny shifts in atmosphere that women were more attuned to because they’d been schooled to be from an early age. ‘We’ve gaps in Lesley Tulley’s account,’ she pointed out. ‘Not cut and dried.’

  ‘Think she nipped home and committed murder and then popped back in to finish her shopping.’

  ‘Not impossible, sir.’

  ‘By all accounts the injuries were quite horrific. Is a woman really capable of that sort of thing?’

  ‘You’d be surprised, sir,’ she said dangerously.

  When he released her she returned to the murder room to collect Richard. He was busy on the computer. She waited, fiddling with her phone trying to change the ringtone. Why did they make them so complicated. God, she was no Luddite, quite happy on the computer or setting the VCR but she’d barely mastered the basics on her phone. Never enough time. Better things to do. More important things. She pressed select and ended up with a diabolical marching tune.

  ‘Boss.’ Richard called her over. ‘Dean Hendrix.’

  She crossed to him, she recognised the name.

  ‘He’s one of the residents, yes?’

  The screen was loading, criminal records.

  ‘Denholme Avenue. Unaccounted for. Neighbours haven’t seen him. There’s a girlfriend, Paula, ex-pupil of Matthew Tulley’s.’

  ‘And Dean’s got form?’ She nodded to the monitor.

  ‘You could say that.’

  The page displayed.

  Janine scanned the information. ‘He’s done time. Good God, three years in Young Offender’s. GBH, weapon was a knife. Slit the victim’s belly open. A Mr Williams, practically disembowelled him.’

  She looked at Richard in horror, something twisting inside her, her throat suddenly dry. ‘Oh, my god, he’s done it before! Where the hell is he?’

  CHAPTER TEN

  ‘I want Dean Hendrix found. Top priority. Circulate a. description. And get forensics to put him into the mix – tell them it’s urgent.’ She issued orders, her mind already running ahead. What should change, what not. Flexible but firm: adapt to new circumstances but don’t let it throw you off course. Don’t over-react she told herself. It’s a lead, that’s all, not a result.

  ‘Shap’s found the girlfriend,’ Richard told her. ‘He’s seeing her now.’

  Janine printed off a mugshot of Dean Hendrix and stuck it up on the board next to those of Lesley Tulley and Ferdie Gibson.

  ‘The Lemon’s gonna love this,’ she said, her heart sinking. ‘He thought two suspects was excessive.’ She thought hard and fast, they would expect her to give the lead.

  ‘OK,’ she called the room to attention. ‘This could be a fluke – the lad’s off having a holiday somewhere, not done a runner. Until we’ve something concrete we keep all the balls in the air. We keep after Mrs Tulley and Ferdie Gibson and we find Dean Hendrix.’

  Richard had a smile hovering on the edge of his lips. Something amuse him?

  ‘Look sharp, Inspector,’ she said. ‘Time we had a bit of a closer look round at the Tulleys’.’

  *****

  Dean had shown Paula his photos. They hadn’t been going together all that long, still working out the rules and getting the measure of each other. She had been asking about his family. He’d clammed up.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dean,’ she had said. They sat awkwardly on his sofa. He wanted to run. They both spoke together then. Mangled words. More embarrassment.

  ‘I’ve got pictures,’ he offered. He didn’t want her to think he was a wimp, that he couldn’t deal with it. Already he knew she was worth more effort than any of the others. She nodded and smiled at him. He brought them down. He never usually looked at them. He remembered Jean, his foster mum, showing him the album. Her rough smoker’s voice, almost whispering, telling him who was who, reading the notes on the back.

  Paula sat close. Dean cracked open a couple of cans. Gave her one. Took a swig. The album lay across their knees, half on his lap, half on hers. The first pages were his mum and her friends. Dean stared at the captured smiles, pointed out the skinny, dark-haired woman.

  ‘I can see the resemblance,’ Paula said. ‘You’re very like her.’ Dean chewed his lip. He turned the page. Baby photos. A studio pose. Himself in white baby clothes against a shiny white curtain. Big, dark eyes and a bald head.

  ‘Aw, Dean.’ She nudged him gently in the ribs, ‘you’ve not changed at all. Look at that.’ Dean, a toddler, with bow and arrow. Dean with a dog in a back yard. Dean and friends round a birthday cake. Dean and his mum sitting on a swing.

  ‘How old was she when she had you?’

  ‘Dunno.’ He had another drink. He didn’t know how old she was when she died either. What did it matter?

  ‘What about your dad?’

  He shrugged. ‘She never married.’

  ‘Do you ever wonder?’ She looked at him.

  ‘Maybe when you’re older.’

  ‘Maybe.’ He couldn’t imagine it. Trying to find a non-existent father. A faceless, nameless ghost. It was all he could manage to consider someday finding out more about his mother. ‘

  ‘What was she called?’

  ‘Shirley he said.

  ‘She looks nice,’ said Paula. ‘You look happy, don’t you?’

  He couldn’t speak. Choked up. He turned the page. The last pictures. Dean with bucket and spade. With his mum and some other people at Christmas time. Tinsel on the table.

  Paula realised. ‘I’m sorry.’

  He shook his head. Tried to shake the tears away. He lowered his head. Eyes stinging.

  Paula slid the book away. ‘I’m sorry, Dean. Too bloody nosy.’

  ‘No,’ he sounded strangled.

  She put her arms around him. ‘It’s all right,’ she said softly.

  That did it, stupid bloody … he couldn’t stop it. Her with her understanding. Had him scriking like a little kid. And it wasn’t all right, was it? Not really. Later, she said sometimes it was good to let it out. Dean wasn’t so sure. In fact he’d rather have left it where it was, ta very much.

  Later still they drank some rum and smoked some grass and went upstairs. He had sex with her. He did it hard and fast. Not wanting to please her. Just wanting to take himself to a different place. She didn’t complain. She let him drift asleep afterwards. She woke him in the night. Rubbing against him, coaxing him with her dirty sweet words, and he made amends.

  *****

  ‘With your permission, Mrs Tulley, we’d like to look round the house?’ Janine said.

  ‘Why? Why do you want to look here?’ Emma was suspicious of them.

  ‘It’s all right, Emma,’ Lesley said.

  ‘We might find useful leads among Mr Tulley’s personal effects,’ Janine explained. ‘It’s more than likely that Matthew knew his attacker.’

  ‘What about Ferdie Gibson, has he been questioned? Have you searched his house?’ Emma asked.

  ‘He has been interviewed.’ Richard answered. ‘And we’re continuing to investigate him.’

  Emma handed out the tea, her mouth still set with disapproval. She leant against the counter with her mug while the others sat at the table.

  ‘This press conference, Mrs Tulley, tomorro
w morning, we’d like you to be there, to issue an appeal for help,’ Janine said.

  Lesley Tulley looked shocked at that, started to speak, thought better of it, tried again. ‘What would I say?’

  ‘We can help you prepare something later. We’ll keep it simple.’

  ‘Do they do any good?’ asked Emma. ‘These appeals?’ Still in protective mode, defensive on her sister’s behalf.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Richard. ‘We tend to get a significant increase in information coming in from the public afterwards.’

  Janine turned to Lesley Tulley. The woman’s face was impassive, eyes lowered, cup to her lips. ‘We should also get forensic results back tomorrow. I’m expecting those to move things forward a great deal. Without witnesses the forensic evidence is going to be vital – it will tell us, I hope, where we should be concentrating our energies. As yet, we’ve not found the knife that was used. Do you know if Matthew kept a knife in his shed at the allotment?’

  Lesley ducked her head, paled and pressed a hand to her mouth.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Janine didn’t want her throwing up again.

  ‘I just keep thinking that someone did that. Why did someone do that?’ She exhaled. ‘I don’t know if he had a knife, I never went there.’

  ‘Are there any knives missing from home?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Would you check?’

  ‘Now?’ Emma scowled.

  Janine nodded. ‘Please.’

  Lesley Tulley put her hands on the kitchen table and pushed herself to her feet. She opened drawers and cupboards and stared into them. ‘There’s nothing obviously missing.’ She swayed on her feet.

  ‘Lesley, you haven’t eaten anything yet, have you? You must try something.’ Emma told her.

  Janine signalled to Richard. ‘We’ll start upstairs. We’ll make a note of any items we need to remove,’ she told Lesley. ‘You might prefer to wait down here?’

  Lesley nodded. Janine was relieved. It was harrowing enough to know someone was pawing through all your possessions without having to observe it.

  They began in the main bedroom, it looked like something from a furniture showroom, smart and sterile. The room smelt of vanilla and lavender. Janine noticed the tiny bowl of pot pourri on the dressing table. High quality stuff. Not the sort you get in the supermarket for next to nothing, that smells like toilet cleaner.

  They were looking for anything amiss, anything unexpected, signs of illegal activity illicit affairs, financial problems. Looking also for a knife with a five inch blade, semi-serrated and some jog-pants. It wasn’t an official search, for that they’d need a warrant, so they wouldn’t be ripping up carpets or dismantling furniture. More a general look about.

  It wasn’t a hard house to search; quite the opposite, everything had its place. Drawers held neatly folded underwear, cupboards opened to reveal their contents without need for rifling through. Janine was impressed with Mrs Tulley’s wardrobe; everything of impeccable quality, classic styles that would resist the fickle trends of fashion, nothing trashy or worn out.

  Matthew Tulley’s clothes divided into work (suits and shirts) and home (Land’s End and Hawkshead). A penchant for check shirts and corduroy trousers. The books on his bedside table told them nothing new. The Organic Gardener and A History Of Britain. At her side a guide book to Singapore, a copy of Elle.

  She and Richard took a side of the room each and worked systematically, replacing items carefully. She opened a drawer in the dressing table, found a selection

  of fancy underwear. Silk and satin slips, lacy bras and pants, camisoles, black suspender belts. She checked beneath them. Nothing. She picked up a pair of scarlet briefs, slippery fabric edged in cream lace. They were crotchless. She folded them quickly, suddenly embarrassed.

  ‘The Lemon asked me if I really thought a woman was capable of such a thing.’

  Richard smiled.

  ‘No imagination,’ she said.

  Richard’s phone rang. He took the call. ‘The message that she left on the sister’s phone is still there,’ he told Janine, ‘very precise: ‘it’s only half past nine’.’

  ‘Neatly establishing time of day.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Too neat?’

  ‘No motive.’ He reminded her.

  Richard Mayne knew, like a catechism, that there were three elements to look for in a murder case – motive, opportunity and preparatory acts. As yet Mrs Tulley wasn’t known to have any motive for killing her husband (unlike Ferdie Gibson who had plenty), and they hadn’t established any preparatory acts. As for opportunity she had access to knives like the rest of the population but whether she had the strength to gut a man was anybody’s guess. People could surprise you. Until the CCTV tape showed them otherwise, she had the opportunity to return to Whalley Range and commit the crime. One out of three, maybe. Not great odds but you had to start somewhere.

  On the landing Richard searched through the airing cupboard and came away empty handed. There were three other bedrooms, one of which was used for storage. All the boxes were neatly labelled; Christmas Decorations, China Tea Service, Velvet Drapes (Brown), Ski-clothes. A random check in some of the least accessible ones showed that each contained precisely what was written on its label.

  ‘No point in going through them all,’ Janine said. ‘If and when we get a warrant …’

  Of the other two bedrooms, one was being used by Emma whose hastily gathered belongings were still half in her overnight bag, and the other room with its twin beds looked as though it had never been used.

  *****

  ‘Hello, Paula,’ said Shap. ‘Can I have a word?’

  He’d been at Steel quarter of an hour, sitting on one of the high metal stools at the bar, sipping a strong lager and listening to chit-chat on the other side of the counter. Waiting till he was ready.

  She frowned slightly. Broke off from stacking glasses on the shelves. ‘Do I know you?’

  Shap flipped his identity wallet open. ‘DS Shap. Just a routine enquiry. We’re trying to get in touch with Dean Hendrix. Thought you might know where he was.’

  ‘Dean?’ she said, frown deepening.

  ‘Yes, Dean. Your boyfriend.’

  She pressed her lips together. ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ said Shap, ‘we’re talking to everyone who lives in Denholme Avenue, see if they saw anything in connection with the murder there yesterday. Matthew Tulley. Your old deputy head, eh?’

  ‘Oh, right.’ She nodded, wary but not panicked. There was a faint rattle as the beads in her hair knocked against each other.

  ‘So, if you can tell us where we can find Dean?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘I don’t know where he is.’

  ‘Not at your place then?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That usual? You not knowing where he is?’

  She stared at him, eyes guarded. Be like pulling hen’s teeth now. ‘His place of work?’ Shap asked.

  ‘He’s freelance,’ Paula said, ‘he hasn’t got a regular place.’

  Could mean anything, freelance. Good, bad or indifferent. ‘Off working somewhere then, is he?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Paula said. Glancing to the left, two customers waiting. ‘I’ve got to get on.’

  ‘He’ll be in touch though?’ Shap lifted his eye brows. ‘Not dumped you, has he?’ Half-smile on his lips. She said nothing. ‘If you hear from him get him to give us a bell.’ He put his card on the bar, raised his glass in salute and drank it down. She pocketed the card, moved away to serve the couple. Shots of tequila, slices of lime, salt.

  Shap watched, waited until she’d handed over their change. ‘Paula. I was thinking, he’ll have a mobile, won’t he? Give me the number, I’ll get in touch direct.’

  She looked away quickly, blinked, looking up as though something in the air would tell her what to do. Swung her gaze back to his. ‘I’ll tell him to call you,’ she said. Wheeled
away before he could persist, through the door to the kitchens.

  *****

  Downstairs, Janine and Richard explored the stylish dining room with its Moroccan tiled table, glass shelves and carefully arranged candelabras and glazed pots. They found nothing. The search of the lounge was fruitless too.

  ‘You know what strikes me,’ she said, keeping her voice low, ‘is how impersonal it all is. There’s no clutter, no letters and photos or mementoes,’ she paused. ‘No kids?’ Could that explain it?

  ‘I haven’t any, either,’ said Richard, ‘but I still have stuff. Not that I’ve had chance to unpack it yet.’

  ‘Photo there,’ she nodded at the wedding snap in its fine golden frame. Lesley Tulley in a cream knee-length dress, short veil, leaning against her husband beneath a rose arbour, head against his shoulder. His hands around her waist. They looked very happy. Lesley Tulley said they had a happy marriage. Why did Janine have doubts about that? Something about Lesley’s reactions? About the feel of the house too.

  It wasn’t just the elegance and the space; it was a mood, a tension in the atmosphere. Someone has just been murdered, she reminded herself; could have something to do with it.

  The study looked more like what she was used to. Files and papers lay on Matthew Tulley’s desk. All of it related to St. Columbus High School. Richard went through his briefcase.

  She examined the shelves. A couple of silver flight cases and some padded bags containing camcorders and photographic accessories. The rest given over to books. She ran her eye along the rows; no fiction to speak of, some books on jazz and photography but mostly education and management books, papers from various examining boards, thick files relating to Standards and the National Curriculum.

  Richard began to search the filing cabinet while Janine went through the desk. In the bottom drawer, underneath everything else, she found a pack of condoms.

  ‘What have we got here?’ She held them up to show Richard. ‘He’s playing away?’