by Helen Phifer
‘You can have what you want, I’m not in a cake mood. They were the only things I could buy that were useful. You’ll never guess what?’
‘What?’
‘Margaret was a parishioner there, and a popular one. The vicar was very friendly; though I got an odd vibe off him. I wonder how he’ll take the news about her?’
‘Well let’s go back and arrest him then, haul him in for questioning. A friendly vicar that gave you a bad vibe could be a good suspect; I mean two women found hanging upside down with their throats cut. He might have major mummy issues.’
‘Very funny. I can’t go and drag him out of the middle of his fair when he’s surrounded by his congregation. They might turn on him and lynch him if they suspect him of any wrongdoing. What I can do, though, is get Col to run him through the system and do all the social media checks. There’s something about him I don’t like. I’m not saying he’s involved, but I don’t trust him; plus, the first murder was a definite huge fuck you to God. She was killed in an abandoned church and hung upside down on a cross. We need to find out if Sandy Kilburn came to church, see if there’s any connection. At least we have something to go on now. We’d come to a bit of a standstill despite our best efforts. This could be the catalyst we need.’
‘And if she’s never set foot in St Aidan’s?’
‘Then it’s back to square one. Come on we need to get to the mortuary or Catherine is going to be seriously pissed off with me.’
He pushed the rest of the flapjack into his mouth and started the engine.
* * *
Catherine was a sight to behold standing there in her bright pink scrubs and matching rubber boots; though the arms folded across her chest wasn’t a good sign. Lucy dashed in and took her place next to Mattie. She looked drab compared to the glamorous doctor. Holding up her hands in submission, Lucy whispered, ‘I’m sorry. Something came up.’
‘Apology accepted, now let’s get down to business.’
The tag was cut from the sealed body bag, and Lucy inhaled, not sure if she wanted to meet Margaret Crowe under such tragic circumstances for a second time in less than twenty-four hours. The elderly woman looked out of place lying on the cold, steel mortuary gurney with her head almost severed, crusted black blood around the gaping wound. This wasn’t how your mum should die; you expect them to have a stroke, a heart attack or, God forbid, cancer. You don’t expect them to end up like this.
Catherine waited for Jack to photograph her inside the body bag before they removed it. Then she began to examine every inch of her clothing, pausing partway down her left leg. Stuck to the polyester trouser leg were three grey hairs. She pulled down her magnifying glasses and looked closer.
‘I don’t know whether these are human hairs or pet hair until I have a closer look. They don’t look humanoid; did she have any pets?’
Lucy nodded. ‘She had a cat; it was found with its head cut off two days ago.’
‘Well that’s interesting, poor cat. Do you think there’s a link between the cat being brutally killed and its owner?’
Mattie looked at Lucy. ‘There has to be, it’s too much of a coincidence.’
Catherine turned her attention back to the body. Removing the hairs to examine and send off for identification.
‘Where is the cat now? If these turn out to be pet hair, I’ll need to take some sample hairs from it for comparison. I can’t see any tears or defects of the outer or inner clothing. Andrew, you may remove the clothes.’
Mattie whispered, ‘I’ll go phone Browning.’
The mortuary technician, who had been doing his job longer than any of them, began to deftly unbutton and remove Margaret’s clothes. He laid each piece on another steel gurney to be examined again. There was a puckered band of smooth skin on her wedding finger. She had still been wearing her gold wedding band and a large diamond solitaire engagement ring when they’d brought the body to the mortuary. Lucy wrote in her notebook – definitely not a robbery gone wrong. Catherine began to take fingernail scrapings.
‘So, we have a female Caucasian, approximately seventy years of age. Height five feet two inches, weight one hundred and thirty pounds. Grey hair, green eyes, in a good physical shape for her age. Some muscle loss, which is to be expected, no scars or tattoos, all of her teeth have been removed some time ago, she was wearing dentures at the time of death.’
When she had finished her preliminary examination, and Margaret’s cold, naked body was laid out, she stood up, stretching her back.
‘Andrew, you can wash her down now.’
Lucy couldn’t tear her eyes away from the gaping wound that used to be Margaret’s neck. She watched as Andrew placed a body block under her back, making her chest protrude forward and her arms and head fall back. Lucy knew this was to make it easier to cut open the chest cavity.
Catherine pulled the clear, protective plastic face shield down and smiled.
‘Are we ready to begin?’
Mattie turned away so he wasn’t staring straight at the body, and Lucy wanted to do the same, only she couldn’t. She owed it to Margaret, and to Tom, to be there by her side, to share the cold horror of the post-mortem with her.
Chapter Twenty
Four hours later and Lucy could feel her eyelids getting too heavy to keep open much longer. Her bones were weary, all she wanted was food and her bed. Apart from the stray hairs on Margaret’s trouser leg there had been no other trace evidence. As she stripped off the faded blue scrubs and ran her hands under the scalding hot water she knew that was enough for today. Even though she hadn’t touched anything in the mortuary apart from her notepad and pen, she still scrubbed at her skin until it was red, as if somehow washing away the horrors of the past forty-eight hours.
When she was satisfied she was clean enough and germ free, she walked into the corridor where Mattie was typing so fast with his thumbs on his phone she wondered if he’d taken a course on touch texting or something similar. He looked up, his cheeks turning slightly pink, and she felt a twinge of envy. He had a life outside of the job; no doubt he’d been sending a message to his current girl of choice. He certainly never wanted for female company; they seemed to be lining up to go out on dates with him. Which was good for him, but it was crap for Lucy, knowing that the love of her life had upped and buggered off after a brief affair with some girl who was old enough to be his daughter. It had only been two months since George had packed his suitcase and walked out of the door, so it was all too fresh and raw. It was his house she was living in, which he’d already owned before they got together, so Lucy was determined as soon as she could find a place of her own that she’d move out. She didn’t want a fucking penny from him; she wanted her life back how it was or nothing.
‘You look exhausted, Lucy.’
She stared at him, blinking her eyes and stifling a yawn to hide the fresh tears that were threatening to fall down her cheeks. Christ she was tired, she got soppy and emotional when she needed sleep.
‘I am and I was just wondering how we are going to get hold of Tom and find out what the hell he was playing at feeding Alison that bullshit story about not leaving work until seven thirty last night.’
‘Boss, I think we should let it be. I don’t think it’s our business, do you?’
They had been walking down the corridor, side by side, towards the busy front entrance of the hospital. Lucy stopped dead and looked at him. ‘You’re being serious?’
He nodded. ‘Do you really think he killed his mother, hung her upside down and then went home to play happy families, Lucy? He’s one of us, one of the good guys, and a decent boss. We’ve never had reason to doubt him before.’
‘Yes, you’re right. We haven’t, and I agree to a certain extent. But we’re not talking about him forgetting to pay for a bottle of wine, are we? We’re talking about murder, cold-blooded murder.’
She hadn’t realised how loud her voice was until she glanced around and saw several people watching her, their mouths open. She didn
’t say another thing until they reached the car at the far end of the car park.
‘We have to ask him, Mattie, he has to account for his whereabouts and he needs to do it truthfully, because there are two dead women who need us to figure out who killed them and why. It’s in his best interest. I want to get him out of this mess as quickly as possible, but he’s not helping himself, is he? He could have texted or rung me, and I’ve had no missed calls.’
He shrugged. ‘Your funeral, Lucy.’
She tugged the car door open, then slammed it shut behind her.
Mattie carried on talking. ‘I suppose it might be better if you pass it over, you know, hand the cases to the big boys from the city. Tell them there’s too much of a conflict of interest, then it’s out of all of our hands. I mean, you have a lot of stuff going on at the moment at home, no one would blame you.’
‘Are you insinuating that I can’t handle it, that because my husband has cheated on me and left me that I won’t be able to work the cases in my normal, professional manner? None of that has anything to do with how I’m handling this investigation.’
She glared at him, daring him to answer. The sting of betrayal felt like someone had jabbed a red, hot poker straight through her heart. Mattie always had her back and here he was telling her to pass the case on because it was making him feel uncomfortable.
He shook his head. ‘You know that’s not what I meant.’
She didn’t answer because she couldn’t. She wanted to talk to Tom, find out if he had an alibi, then go home and get shit-faced, because what was the worst that could happen? It wasn’t as if her shitty life could get any worse.
As he parked the car in the rear yard of the station she broke the silence.
‘I’m tired, I need to go home and sleep. If anything urgent comes in, ring me. Oh and find out where the hell Browning put that dead cat.’
She strode off to her mint green Fiat 500. Scanning the parked cars for Tom’s, unable to see it, she knew that before she clocked off for the day she had to speak to him. She didn’t understand if it was a man thing with Mattie or whether he was just being incredibly naive, but she would not put her investigation in jeopardy by being too scared to interview a potential suspect regardless of his rank. If the tables were turned and it was her mother who had been murdered and she had ninety minutes of time that couldn’t be accounted for, she’d be demanding another detective to deal with the case if they hadn’t bothered to chase her up. That was the key to being a good detective: no matter how small or painstaking something might seem, you followed up on every little clue. Sometimes the smallest, random piece of information was enough to piece together and be the break in the case you were looking for.
Lucy followed a marked van out of the gates and headed back in the direction of Tom’s house.
Chapter Twenty-One
David waved goodbye to Natalia, her daughter, and the teenager whom he’d overheard Natalia offering a lift home. He wished the woman had offered to take him home. He’d spent most of the day catching his breath every time he caught sight of her. It was him and Jan left now, and she was on one, moaning about the state of the hall. He slammed the door shut and went back inside; it was a lot better than he’d expected.
‘Come on, why don’t we call it a day? Go home, get a Chinese takeaway, open a bottle of wine or two, put our feet up and sort the rest of this out tomorrow. It can wait.’
She stared at him, her small eyes narrowing even further. ‘What about Margaret? She hasn’t been in touch. We better call at her house and make sure she’s okay. I feel bad in case she’s ill or needs help.’
He’d forgotten all about her. ‘You go home and have a bath; I’ll order the takeaway, then go and check on her while it’s cooking.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, you’ve worked hard today, dear. I have to show my appreciation somehow.’ He’d ideally like to show her his appreciation by wrapping his hands around her chunky, short neck and choking her until she could no longer breathe, but he couldn’t. Instead he would let her stuff herself, and drink all the wine: she’d fall asleep.
* * *
After placing his order at the Chinese takeaway he drove the short distance to Margaret’s house and was surprised to see a police community support officer standing at the gate with a clipboard in her hands. He pulled up into the nearest parking space and got out of his car, striding towards her.
‘Good evening, officer, is everything okay?’
He beamed at her; she squirmed and managed some kind of smile in return.
‘Yes, no, not really, Father.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. I’ve just come to check on Margaret; she’s one of my parishioners and she lives here. I haven’t heard from her today; she was going to help out at the church fair. I’m a touch worried about her.’
He was pointing to the house that was all in darkness behind her.
‘I’m really sorry. I can’t tell you anything except Margaret isn’t here. Well, I can tell you there’s been a serious incident involving her.’
His frown was just enough concern with a touch of frustration. ‘I understand you have to do your job but can you tell me if she’s okay?’
He felt a twinge of excitement watching her face turn from pink to deep red.
‘I can’t tell you anything. I don’t really know myself. If you ring 101 and ask for Detective Inspector Lucy Harwin, she might be able to tell you a little bit more than I can.’
Reaching out he patted her arm. ‘Of course, I’m sorry. I know you can’t tell me anything. I’ll ring the station. Thank you.’
He walked back to his car, his interest piqued. What had happened to the old busybody? Whatever it was must be pretty serious to have a uniformed officer standing guard outside her decrepit garden gate.
Chapter Twenty-Two
February 1990
He lay in bed, his teeth chattering so loud the noise filled the room. His breath floated into the air, where the smoky white plumes looked as if he was smoking. He wasn’t; he’d tried it once, and it made him puke so hard his stomach had cramped for hours. He never tried it again. There was no heating in this house and his body was cold despite the numerous blankets he’d dragged out of the linen cupboard and thrown over his bed. He could hear his dad downstairs. He was drunk and talking far too loudly. His father’s voice echoing below him, he was quoting the Bible for the first time since his mum had died and the words filled his mind with terrible memories. His stomach was churning knowing what was coming next. The Bible quotes had stopped after his mother’s death, which had been the only good thing to come of losing her. He had heard the giggling when they’d first come in, so loud it had woken him up. Then there had been the moaning and for the first time he’d heard the all-too-familiar sound of his dad’s knuckles as they’d hit the woman’s face or body. She’d screamed, calling him a cocksucker amongst other things. This had made him smile; he didn’t think his dad was one of those. On the other hand, he was partial to being the one on the receiving end, so this was a bit of a change for him. He felt sorry for the woman: he knew this was going to end badly for her. Shit he knew it was going to end even worse for him, because if he didn’t satiate his rage when his father beat her, he would drag him out of bed and finish it off on him.
The front door slammed so hard he felt the house vibrate and he steeled himself for what he knew was coming next, turning onto his side and squeezing his eyes shut. The heavy footsteps began to climb the stairs. He thought about picking one of the heavy brass bookends up and smashing it into his father’s skull. He could take him by surprise, hide behind the door then bury it into his brains. Before he could move, the door flew open and he heard his heavy breathing as he stood in the doorway. He lay still, trying to keep his breathing shallow so he thought he was still asleep.
The covers were dragged off him and his eyes flew open. He scrambled off the mattress to get away from him. His feet got tangled in the multitude of blanket
s and he crashed to the floor in a heap. Regretting ever trying to think he could escape the bastard and his fists of iron, he braced himself. Waiting for the first punch, but it never came. There was hammering on the front door, it was opened, and he heard a deep voice shout: ‘Police.’
He looked up at his father, who didn’t look so mean and angry now, instead he looked shocked. He couldn’t help it and grinned at him; despite knowing that he’d pay for his insolence later it was worth it. Even louder footsteps came running up the stairs and before his father was able to get out of his room two of the biggest coppers he’d ever seen were standing there, filling the doorway. Staring at the sight of the pale skinny boy lying on the floor curled up with his arms above him to protect his head. The older of the two men lunged for his father and he watched in slow motion as his fist shot out and punched his dad square on the nose. The crunch was satisfying. What was even better was the cry of pain his father emitted.
‘Did you see that, Mickey, he went for me? That was self-defence; he’d have had me if I hadn’t hit him first.’
‘I did, he’s a dangerous fucker. Likes hitting women and kids, his sort needs a good kicking.’
The copper didn’t hit his dad again; instead he shoved him against the wall and dragged both of his arms behind his back, handcuffing him. Then he was being dragged out of the room and down the stairs, the whole time protesting his innocence.
The other copper walked over to him and leant down offering his hand.
‘Come on, son, he won’t hurt you again. I’ll make sure of that. Now how old are you?’
‘Eleven.’
‘Do you have anyone you can stop with? Is that your mum who phoned it in?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know her; she comes home with him when he’s drunk. My mum’s dead.’