The Decoy

by Florrie Palmer

  When the officer had warned her that it would be a traumatic experience, she hadn’t realised quite how bad it would be. They reached the place where the body had fallen. There were obvious signs of disturbance at the scene. Black, congealed blood covered some of the area. A cloud of blowflies rose into the air at the disturbance, some remaining along with their larvae.

  Like Katie before her, Eliza threw up. Because of her mother’s great love of nature and dislike of shop-bought flowers, she had hand-picked a bouquet of autumn berries and leaves and tied them with string. She quickly threw down the bunch to cover the disgusting sight and looked up at the sky.

  Addressing the treetops, she said, “Wherever you are, I love you and want you to know that. I know about the cancer and wish you had shared it with me, but I understand why you didn’t. You were so, so brave and I just wish I could say goodbye properly, and if you can hear me, I just want you to know we are so desperately sorry it had to end this way and we shall miss you terribly. You were the best mother I could have wished for, and Jay thinks so too. We all loved you so much. You know he didn’t do this and so do I.” She was barely able to finish, “I promise you, Mum, we will find whoever did this so you can sleep in the peace you deserve.”

  She dropped to her knees and wailed.

  “There, you’ve told her, Mrs Armstrong. I’m sure your mum will be pleased to have heard from you and glad that you came. But it’s time to come away now.” The gentle officer helped her up and they walked home. It seemed to take forever.

  That afternoon, Eliza took the first of the three one-hour visits a week that were allowed to Jay. For the second, she planned to take Juliet and Holly.

  Still tearful, Jay walked slowly to the table between them. Crying also, she reached across for his hand. He did not take it. He looked grey.

  She tried talking to him about what George Pearson was doing to help and she tried to bolster him. With no luck. In such a short time, her husband seemed to have almost lost touch with reality. All he would say was to keep insisting that this was his comeuppance and that justice had finally caught up with him.

  Unable to make head or tail of what he was talking about, she finally said his name, “Jay! What are you trying to say?”

  It was then, for the first time, he told her about what he had done to the tyre on Ralph’s Ford Mustang. “I killed him, I killed him.”

  Her strength returned to her. She hissed at him, “You don’t say a word of this to anyone else. Understand? You were abused, Jay, and you simply let the air out of a tyre. You didn’t know he would die. And you didn’t kill my mother!”

  By Thursday morning, Hugh Dunlop had turned the corner. He got up and pottered about in his dressing gown. He was semi-retired and there was nothing especially pressing at the law firm. The office could wait. He would go in on Friday.

  At supper, he managed to get down a couple of boiled eggs and toast, and afterwards he and his wife settled down on the sofa to watch a drama on television. Still feeling delicate, he stayed up to catch the news headlines but decided he would head back to bed after that.

  Between the deep sonorous chimes of the Big Ben bell, the BBC newscaster read the headlines.

  Bong, “Again, a mass shooting in the United States. This time twelve murdered in a Californian bar and dance hall.”

  Bong, “Suspect arrested for the murder of Mrs Anne Berkeley on Monday…”

  Bong, “Mrs May talks of EU backstop to the backstop…”

  “Oh my God! Oh no. It’s true. Oh God!” Hugh Dunlop buried his head in his hands. His wife comforted him.

  “Brexit is beyond our control, Hugh. What will be will be.”

  “I must go to the office.”

  “What? Now?”

  “It’s urgent.”

  The shock along with his recent poisoning was obviously making him confused. His wife said, in what she thought to be a calming tone, “I’m sure it’ll wait till tomorrow.”

  “I can’t believe I missed it. This is dreadful.” Tears appeared in his eyes.

  “Go back to bed, Hugh. You’ve had a horrible time and you’re tired out.”

  “Early start,” he muttered to himself as he left the room shaking his head, “early start. Important business. Oh dear, oh dear. Poor, poor Annie. This is so terribly sad. Oh dear, oh dear.”

  That night when Eliza had lain in bed, sleep had refused to come as questions had whirled around her troubled head. She was grieving on two accounts. But the business of Jay’s arrest had not upset her as much as you might imagine. For a reason she would not have been able to explain, she was so certain of his innocence that she was convinced the Cambridge Police would soon realise their mistake too. She did not know about the evidence yet and might not have felt so optimistic if she had.

  Staring at the ceiling, Eliza had gone over the many possibilities of who had actually done this frightful thing to her poor mum. Neither would she speak the words “murder” or “killing” or “death”, nor even use them in her mind. She had not yet been able to process her mother’s departure.

  She thought about people from Heronsford. Why would any of them want to do such a thing? It was such a violent act, surely a woman couldn’t do that to another? Or could they? But who? Rose? Eliza couldn’t believe she was capable of such a terrible thing – unless, perhaps, she had known about Annie’s cancer and it had been done to prevent her having to go through a dreadful, slow death. But then had she framed Jay for it. How, and why?

  She racked her brains and recalled a recent heated exchange she and Jay had. This had been when he had yet again raised the issue that they should think about selling Manor Farm. She had become upset and now she remembered that Rose had been cleaning the kitchen and would have overheard what had turned into a furious argument. When she had asked Jay what might become of her mother if they were to sell, he’d shouted that her mother could stay in her barn for all he cared. Eliza had to remind him that under the terms of the original planning permission, the two properties could not be separated for sale. That had not helped Jay’s mood.

  Putting such dire thoughts out of her head, Eliza had decided her darling Rose could never murder Annie, even for the best possible reasons. So, who else could it be? Hamish? Bob? Stella? Patrick? Try as she might, there was absolutely no reason she could see why any of them would want to do away with such a well-loved old lady.

  It must, she concluded, have been some random assailant who was up to no good in the wood and got caught out by Annie B. So, what were these things the police had taken from the house? Why Jay’s toolbox? What had they got on him to arrest him?

  She decided to call George Pearson in the morning. He would fill her in. Surely it couldn’t have been Jay? Or could it? Had he been feigning love for Annie all these years? Getting rid of her mother would solve their financial problems as Eliza would inherit her money.

  A tremor of fear ran through Eliza’s body. She finally slept, the sleeping pill taking effect.

  Finding Annie in the wood had a bad effect on Katie too. The whole experience had been traumatic for her. She had even been fingerprinted by the police and questioned at length about exactly when she found Annie and whether she had rung them straightaway.

  It almost felt as though they had doubted her word and however much Hamish had tried to reassure her that they were just doing their job, she had sunk fast into a deep depression, drinking more and more.

  Her paranoia was increasing. Everything her husband did or said was suspicious to her. Something drastic had to be done. Hamish knew their lives had to change.

  “I didn’t want to tell you before, but since you are being so bloody stupid, it’s time you heard the truth.” Stella tried to interrupt but Bob’s face stopped her. She went quiet.

  “You may recall that your birthday is fast approaching. I had planned to give a surprise birthday party for you next month. As I couldn’t mention it in front of you on Sunday, I dropped in at Manor Farm on Monday morning to give the
Armstrongs their invitation. I rang the bell two or three times, but nobody came to the door. I gave up and as I was leaving, I saw Jay walking back across the field that leads from the farm to Rooks Wood. In one hand he was carrying something slim that was about a foot long. I thought nothing of it at the time and decided not to wait for him to return, and try again later. Jay is now being questioned. I didn’t want to get my friend into trouble but after much deliberation, I decided that if Jay had really done something as appalling as murdering his elderly mother-in-law, then he deserved everything the police could throw at him.”

  “How could you?”

  “Because my eyes did not deceive me. I know it’s horrible to believe, but it looks like it’s the truth.”

  “Jay loved Annie. I cannot believe he killed her.”

  “I don’t want to think so either. I like Jay a lot. He’s a good man. But I know what money problems can do to a person. Their company has hit the skids. He knows Annie’s money will save the day.”

  “But they have been getting more orders recently and things are looking a bit better for them.”

  “Hmm… too little, too late?”

  “I can’t guess what the police have on Jay, but I suppose they must have some sort of evidence. Goodness knows what Eliza is thinking. I don’t feel I can call her just yet. It’s a terrible situation for her.”

  Was, they separately wondered, the dynamic between them beginning to alter?

  23

  9 November

  On Friday morning, soon after nine o’clock, after the phone had rung for some time, an officer in charge of incoming calls at Parkside Police Station responded and said, “Cambridgeshire Constabulary. May I help you?”

  “Oh, er, hello?” He gave his name. “I am a London solicitor requesting to speak to the detective in charge of the Anne Berkeley murder case.”

  “I’m afraid Detective Chief Inspector Waterman is out, sir.”

  “How can I get hold of him quickly? Does he have a mobile, please?”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but we do not hand out officers’ mobile phone numbers to members of the public.”

  “I am not a member of the public, I’m a solicitor.”

  “I see, sir,” replied the sergeant patiently. “While I am sure you are telling the truth, unfortunately we do not hand out senior officers’ mobile phone numbers. Do you wish to remain anonymous? In which case you need to–”

  “No, I do not wish to remain anonymous. I wish to speak to Inspector Waterfield personally.”

  “Then I suggest you contact us after ten o’clock when Detective Chief Inspector Waterman will be present. You should be able to contact him via our live web chat service where you can explain what it is you want to tell him.”

  “Contact him through what, did you say?”

  The sergeant sighed. Why did he have to deal with idiots all the time? “Our live web chat service. It’s on our website,” he said, still trying but failing to sound patient.

  “Oh dear, however do I do that?”

  Obviously old as the hills and thick as two planks. The sergeant took a deep breath. “Sir, the Inspector should be back by ten o’clock today. May I suggest you look up the website.” Tempted to hang up on him, the frustrated policeman asked whether he had someone who could do it for him.

  “Ah yes, an idea that. I’ll ask my secretary to link me up to it. But I’d much rather speak to the detective.”

  “As I explained, I’m afraid he’s a very busy man, sir.”

  “As I said, this is a highly important matter. I have information regarding the murder of Anne Berkeley.”

  Probably some crackpot calling, but you could never be sure. “Yes, sir. I am about to give you the department website address.” The sergeant spelled out the address then slowly explained the process by which to engage with the live service. It took him some time since the man had first to find a pen as well as being seemingly computer illiterate. Once that was done, the sergeant said,

  “Ask your secretary to put you on to the chat service.” The solicitor muttered under his breath, wondering what the world had come to. He thanked the officer, who he felt had actually been pretty unhelpful and the two men gratefully rang off.

  Soon after this, Eliza received a call from the solicitor.

  Having had a very late night at the station, Inspector Waterman was expecting today to be the same. The Anne Berkeley case had been dealt with but there was always too much to be done. A hearty breakfast before work helped him get through. He ate at a nearby café and by 9.50, was back at his desk.

  “Er, excuse me, sir.” The sergeant who had spoken to the solicitor told him about the call.

  “What’s he got to say about the murder, I wonder?”

  “Could be a hoax, sir, but you never know. I directed the man to speak on the live web chat service. I’ll find out whether he has called yet.”

  He hurried off, returning soon with information that the operator had spoken to the man, verified who he was with a quick check, returned the man’s call and passed the DCI’s email address on to him. Dunlop was the name.

  The detective tapped his email open and there it was. He read through the email and its three attachments. He moved quickly and called the officer back in, “Get these printed for me straightaway, please, and bring them back immediately.”

  When he had finished re-reading it, he dropped the paper on his desktop, sighed, rubbed his greying temples and leant back in his chair. In all his years, he had never come across anything like this.

  The email was from the solicitor who had called him earlier. It had two attachments and was marked urgent. The first attachment was a sworn statement, the second Hugh Dunlop’s affidavit. He read through them.

  He had got the wrong man in the cells. At least, it looked that way. But that man’s fingerprints and Anne Berkeley’s blood were on the monkey wrench and his gloves, and no-one else’s.

  The first thing to do was re-examine the evidence. He buzzed the internal phone through to ask for the file to be brought to him at once.

  Just after 2.30 on Friday afternoon, Alan Waterman and three other officers visited Heronsford Manor. The door was opened by the housekeeper. She explained that Mr McKenzie was at work in Cambridge, but that Mrs McKenzie was in her sitting room. Would they like to speak with her? They stepped into the big hall that lead to various downstairs rooms in the house, along with a grand curling staircase with a shining mahogany bannister rail that, wider at the bottom, narrowed as it ascended to a small central landing where it split into two parts that led upstairs.

  The anxious-faced housekeeper fetched Stella, who looked taken aback by the police presence. This was the second time they had called that week. They had seen the couple early on Tuesday before Bob had gone to work and the shocked pair had little to tell.

  Assuring her she had nothing to be alarmed about, the inspector showed Stella a warrant he had to search the house. As though she didn’t trust her legs to hold her up, she sat down on a chair in the hall.

  “Why? What for?”

  Stella asked the housekeeper, who was quietly listening behind the kitchen door, to accompany the men around the house. Waterman stayed with Stella, assuring her that they were simply following up on some information received. But, she asked, what was it to do with? Was she or Bob in trouble? If so, for doing what? Did this have to do with Annie Berkeley’s murder? The inspector avoided replying and simply suggested she didn’t worry too much at this stage of their enquiry.

  The police asked the housekeeper what day the bins were collected, to which she replied, “Early on Monday mornings.”

  “And what about the laundry?”

  The housekeeper took a moment to think about her routine. “Well, each day I take dirty laundry from Mr and Mrs McKenzie’s separate laundry baskets and bring it downstairs. But the washing is done twice a week.”

  Inspector Waterman narrowed his eyes. “What about silk handkerchiefs, for instance? Washed or dry cleaned?
”

  “They are always handwashed and ironed with care here, sir,” said the housekeeper proudly.

  “Thank you.”

  The two officers who had been assigned to search through the rubbish bins were under instructions to sift through them with great attention. They soon reappeared with something packaged.

  Stella tried but could not see what it was. They had been briefed beforehand on what to do with their find. One of them said something quietly in the detective’s ear. He nodded and watched them leave the house. They drove away fast.

  Meantime, the housekeeper showed two others to Robert and Stella’s bedroom suite that consisted of a large bedroom, a dressing room for Bob and another for Stella. They also had separate bathrooms. The policeman quietly whistled.

  He searched through Bob’s built-in wooden floor-to-ceiling wardrobe that covered the entire length of his dressing room. One end contained rows of shoes carefully placed on racks that pulled out, above which hung ties, belts and scarves. Next to that were sliding drawers that held carefully pressed folded shirts and jumpers. The centre two hanging rails held jackets, waistcoats and trousers while at the end, stacks of shallow drawers that slid open contained socks, boxer shorts, cufflinks, watches and handkerchiefs. The officer checked through the wardrobe as well as the laundry baskets that were both empty.

  He then checked Stella’s dressing room and searched through her things that were kept in a similar arrangement to her husband’s. He combed the bedroom and the bathrooms. When he had finished, he descended the staircase holding a large evidence bag.

  “I’m done, boss.”

  “Right. You know what to do, Daniels.” The officer nodded, left the house, got into the inspector’s car.

  Before he left to join him, the inspector suggested strongly to both Stella and the housekeeper that they kept quiet about their visit, in particular to Mr McKenzie, and assured them both not to worry. Waterman and Daniels drove quickly away.