The Unsuspecting Housewife
Page 1
The
Unsuspecting
Housewife
(a cautionary tale)
Olivia Charles
Copyright © 2017 Olivia Charles
KINDLE Edition
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored, in any form or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
PublishNation
www.publishnation.co.uk
This book is dedicated to all decent human beings
and independent well-heeled women.
Contents
July 25th 2015.
October 2004.
November 2004.
January 2005.
February 2005.
March 2005.
April 12th 2005.
April 14th 2005.
April 23rd 2005.
April 26th 2005.
May 7th 2005.
May 10th 2005.
June 1st 2005.
June 8th 2005.
July 2005.
August 2005.
November 2005.
December 2005.
February 2006.
March 2006.
May 2006.
June 2006.
July 2006.
October 2006.
November 2006.
December 14th 2006.
December 20th 2006.
March 2007.
May 2007.
July 2007.
October 2007.
November 1st 2007.
November 25th 2007.
March 2008.
April 2008.
May 3rd 2008.
May 4th 2008.
May 5th 2008.
May 6th 2008.
May 7th 2008.
May 28th 2008.
June 2008.
July 11th 2008.
July 14th 2008.
July 14th 2008.
July 15th 2008.
July 22nd 2008.
August 4th 2008.
August 9th 2008.
August 20th 2008.
September 2008.
October 4th 2008.
October 12th 2008.
October 23rd 2008.
November 2008.
January 2009.
February 19th 2009.
February 28th 2009.
February 29th 2009.
June 2009.
November 2009.
December 2009.
January 4th 2011.
January 5th 2011.
March 20th 2011.
Tower Bridge.
March 21st 2011.
The Meat Waggon.
Holloway Prison.
Morton Hall Prison.
Prison Life.
July 22nd 2011.
July 26th 2011.
February 2012.
March 2012.
April 2012.
May 2012.
June 2012.
July 2012.
September 2012.
March 2013.
May 2013.
June 23rd 2013.
June 23rd 2013.
June 3rd 2015.
July 25th 2015.
July 25th 2015.
“Morning Sir.”
“Good morning Beaty, we can’t moan about early shifts when it’s as nice as this can we?” The DCI gestured towards the clear blue morning sky. “What have we got here?”
“A smartly dressed, middle-aged woman found slumped unconscious at the wheel. Paramedics are trying to resuscitate her now.” She pointed towards the stationary ambulance parked beside the entrance to the woods.
“Surely you don’t need me? He stepped cautiously around the clean and undamaged black convertible. “Have you identified the woman and traced the vehicle?”
“PC Heeley’s on it now Sir, but he seems to be having a bit of a problem as it seems this number plate is registered to a silver transit van in Manchester.”
“Get Heeley to check again, it could be an error on the system.”
“I’m quite new to this side of things Sir, but I had a really bad feeling when I saw her.”
“You had a bad feeling?” He gave a patronising smile. “Who called it in?”
“The man in the running kit, over there with his dog. He was a bit shaken by his find but he stayed with the car until we arrived. He said he initially knocked on the window but she didn’t respond, so he opened the un-locked door and spoke to her but thought she must be dead because she didn’t move either. He assures me that he didn’t dare touch her. I’ve taken a preliminary statement from him and got his address and contact details. He’s agreed to come into the station to give a formal statement if required.”
“Fine, let the poor bloke go, he obviously wants to get to work.”
DCI Warburton smiled and nodded a grateful acknowledgement to the man, then started to walk towards the ambulance just as the rear doors locked and the vehicle set off for hospital with flashing lights. He huffed in acceptance of his unfortunate timing and returned his attention to the woman’s vehicle left behind on the grass verge. He sauntered towards the Detective Sergeant as he pulled on blue latex gloves from the inside pocket of his jacket and then bobbed down to look inside the open car. She joined him to offer assistance.
“The woman appeared to have a couple of scratches on her face and wrists and her knuckles were a bit bruised too but her nails were perfectly manicured.”
“Wedding ring?” He asked.
“Yes Sir and a noticeable diamond too, so no theft. We left everything as it was when we knew you were coming. As you can see; it’s all immaculately clean with no obvious evidence of anyone having been in the vehicle with her.”
“We need to know who this woman is and what was she was doing in a quiet wooded lane at dawn? Anything helpful for us in the glove compartment?” He glanced through the windscreen and noticed the young male constable was still leaning against a tree and talking on his handset.
“Nothing, Sir.”
“Really? No service book, no gloves, no sweets?” He checked inside for himself. “That is unusual.”
“All we noticed was a pair of sunglasses in the driver’s side door pocket.”
The DCI scrutinised the interior of the car very carefully and systematically as DS Beaty watched him retrieve a small bottle of water which had rolled under the passenger seat and had leaked onto the black velvet-like mat. He sniffed the nozzle, screwed up his nose and sucked his teeth noisily then carefully dropped it into the plastic evidence bag which Beaty held open for him. He turned his attention to the handbag which he noticed on the back seat, retrieved it and cautiously prised the handles apart to peep inside.
“My wife likes a designer bag and this one looks damned expensive.” He carefully removed a slim pocket diary in order to establish the woman’s identity and address but the first page had been torn away. He looked inside the purse. “There is no ID at all in here.” He dropped them both back into the handbag and placed them into a larger evidence bag held open by DS Beaty. “When you drive your car, where do you put your handbag?”
“On the passenger seat, Sir.”
“So does my wife. In fact I don’t know a woman who takes any notice of safety advice, or accepts how easy it is to snatch it through the window.” He found it difficult to understand female recklessness.
“Maybe there was a passenger with her?” DS Beaty offered.
DCI Warburton was deep in thought as he passed around the car again and leaned into the driver’s side to check if the keys in the ignition and the position of the driver’s seat on which he supported his weight on his left gloved hand. He took a mental note of the angle of the mirrors and the position of the seat and handbrake.
“What do we think? An accidental drug overdose? Some kind of fit?” He delicately prised the sunglasses from the door well and bagged them as evidence, then stood up and walked to the rear of the car and pointed to the boot.
“Been in here?”
“Yes Sir, there’s just a pair of walking boots, a waterproof jacket and an umbrella.”
He bent down to examine the number plate which fell off in his hand. “Beaty, you were right to be suspicious. Look, it’s stuck on with duct tape.” He walked round to the front plate and tugged at that one too to reveal a part broken plate beneath.
“The whole thing’s odd. Bag these, then call forensics and get them on the job and stay here ‘til they’ve done. Then see that this car gets taken back to HQ. We will find out who she is and what happened here, but I want you to bring that handbag back to the station, personally.” He gesticulated purposefully towards the item. “When PC Heeley’s finally got his act together and traced the car, he can go to the registered address on his own. Tell him to phone me afterwards, will you? Meanwhile, I’m off to hospital to see this woman for myself and get some answers.” He peeled off the thin latex gloves and returned to his unmarked BMW.
The Sergeant watched her superior officer drive away and did exactly as she was ordered.
A few hours later she arrived back at the station, hungry, thirsty and desperate for the loo but as she hurried through the reception, the Duty Sergeant called to her:
“Heather, luv, a minute, that job you’ve just been out on, seems things have changed and apparently the enquiry’s on hold.”
“What? Why? Where is DCI Warburton?”
“Dunno luv but the Chief Constable himself has put a stop on this one and said the incident is to be filed as a failed suicide attempt. Apparently the woman is known to the force and an enquiry was ‘deemed to be a waste of public funds’ or something.” He threw his open hands out and shrugged his shoulders. “Search me luv, all I know is; the car and contents are to be held in the compound pending collection.” He smiled warmly in a conciliatory fashion but then turned his attention to a ringing telephone.
DS Heather Beaty stood before the reception desk with raised eyebrows and lowered expectations. Although she was surprised by the uncharacteristic dismissiveness of her senior officer, she was even more baffled by the swift and highly irregular intervention by the most senior acting officer in the entire police force. She felt thoroughly ‘pissed off’ but didn’t understand why.
She dropped the bagged handbag unceremoniously onto the vacant desk she usually occupied, nipped to the loo, then returned to the office with a large mug of coffee and flopped down on her favourite swivel chair. She tore the wrapper from a chocolate biscuit bar and took a large bite before she began to log the woman’s bag and personal effects. Once she had finished her snack, she brushed the biscuit crumbs from her sleeve then put on latex gloves to lay out the contents of the bag upon the desk: The diary which did not seem to recognise an owner, two sets of house keys, neat but un-exciting make-up bag, a black leather purse which appeared to be a quality item yet contained only £27.68 and curiously held no credit cards, a packet of tissues and a black fibre tip pen. She was disappointed that there was no mobile phone to log and one had not found inside the vehicle either, as that would have been helpful. She delicately unzipped the discreet silk pocket in the lining of the handbag and recovered a bright pink computer memory stick. She labelled the plastic evidence bag, compiled an inventory of all the contents and put everything back into the bag, save for the memory stick which she twirled around in her fingers, pensively.
It seemed as though the case had been taken out of her hands or closed by her superiors but wanted to hear clarification of those orders from her DI when he eventually came back to the station. Until then, she felt compelled to hold on to the handbag and have a quick look at what was on the memory stick. She inserted it into the desktop computer and up sprang several folders onto the screen which she briefly opened to check the contents which at first glance seemed both surprising and intriguing, contained various names and addresses and were labelled; ‘legal documents’, ‘correspondence MPs’, ‘Home Secretary’, ‘Police’, ‘IPCC’, ‘Royal Courts of Justice’ and one huge file labelled; ‘diary of a housewife’ which she chose to read first…
October 2004.
Henrietta smiled as she stepped out of Mulberry Cottage and into the unseasonably warm autumn sunshine. She locked the heavy oak door behind her and admired the expansive and verdant village green as she walked towards her car, unlocked it, dropped her handbag on to the passenger seat, turned on the ignition, opened the automated roof and chose an Annie Lennox CD for the journey into the local market town. She parked near the ancient stone bridge, unfastened the studs of her quilted black Barbour and strolled past mothers with toddlers throwing bread to the noisy ducks.
A little bell tinkled as she entered the new mobile phone shop and was cheerfully greeted by a middle aged man of average height and build with dark brown eyes who smiled with clean but crowded teeth.
“Good morning madam, how can I help you?” He stepped forward attentively.
“My twelve year old son wants a mobile phone. Apparently everyone else at school has one, so it seems I must give in!” She smiled with notable feigned defeat.
“You too? I get a lot of mums in my shop. I doubt you’ll be the last. I’ve got kids of a similar age and must say that at least with a mobile you’ll have peace of mind that they’re safe. I’d suggest a ‘pay as you go’, as the credit is capped in case it gets lost or stolen.” He cautioned. “Let me show you a few phones that are popular with the youngsters.” He gestured towards a specific shelf and guided his customer through her various options.
Twenty minutes later Hetty had not only bought Oscar his first phone but had also been encouraged to up-grade to a sleek, dainty and expensive little Nokia for her own use. The assistant had taken all of her details to discontinue her current contract, on her behalf, in favour of one which he assured her would prove to be more economical. She handed over her debit card which he slotted into a machine kept on a shelf under the counter, then presented it for her pin number. They seemed to wait an age for the mechanical bank acceptance.
“The reception is always slow in here, sorry.” He looked at his watch and at a scenic calendar pinned to the wall behind him. “No wonder! All the banks computers will be groaning, as most mortgages are debited today.”
Henrietta said nothing, hunched her shoulders and looked bemused.
“You know, mortgage payments. We’ve all got them. Isn’t yours taken today? Mine is.”
“No, I haven’t got one.”
“Have you got any other shopping to do? Perhaps you could pop back later and we could try again?”
“I do need to nip to the supermarket.”
“Lovely, I’ll look forward to seeing you again in a little while.”
Henrietta walked away to buy her groceries and then returned to the phone shop.
“A beautiful woman twice in one morning, I think I’d better buy a lottery ticket tonight!” He grinned and she smiled at his blandishment whilst he held out his hand expectantly for her plastic card.
“Oops, still not having it! There must be some big payment going out today. If it isn’t a mortgage, let me guess; fancy car finance?” He teased as once again the machine would not accept her p
ayment.
“No! It worked in the Co-op.” She was indignant.
“I apologise madam. Perhaps you could try a credit card? They can’t be busy as it isn’t Christmas for ages.” He tried to humour his customer.
“Yes, fine.” She handed over the alternative card and again he shuffled under the counter in the tiny one room shop to produce a dusty contraption in which he placed a carbon film over her card and dragged the hand piece over the sheets of paper. She signed her name, was given a copy of her transaction plus the free gift of a pink nylon lanyard to hang the phone round her neck when driving, as a reward for being so patient.
Once Terry was alone, he rested against the tall chrome legged stool behind his counter and gave a beatific smile. His guardian angels were indeed looking over him. Maybe his luck was finally changing? He picked the copy of Henrietta’s phone contract from his ‘to be filed’ tray and gazed at her fluid signature before he noticed another customer about to enter his shop and the little bell rang once more.
The fact was that he could not get Henrietta out of his mind. He picked up her paperwork once again and opened his lap top. He had acquired the technological tools to research people on his computer and not only did he have her bank details, but he also knew her address, phone number and date of birth. He considered that she was only one year older than him but looked a hell of a lot better than he did and had the appearance and demeanour of someone from a privileged life. He could not wait to close the shop early and make a special investigative trip to see where and how she lived.
Terry drove slowly along the main street of the rural village until he found her cottage nameplate and parked his Jeep outside the village pub on the far side of the village green where he knew his presence would be inconspicuous. He saw a school bus approaching and lowered his head whilst it parked with a loud hiss of brakes at the bus shelter and watched keenly as half a dozen boisterous youngsters in school uniform jumped down onto the grass, shouted and waved goodbyes and split off in various directions. One young boy with fair tousled hair swung his ruck sack over his shoulder and waited on the grass verge until the bus had moved off, then ran across the road, bounded through the cottage gate and opened the unlocked door and disappeared inside. He caught a glimpse of the boy through one of the ground floor windows.