TWISTED CRIMES a gripping detective mystery full of suspense

by MICHAEL HAMBLING

  Warrander smiled weakly and followed her bulky form outside to the car.

  CHAPTER 3: Crushed

  Wednesday, Week 1

  Phil McCluskie scratched his head and frowned. He’d spent the morning combing through road traffic accident reports for the previous ten days but had got nowhere. Lots of RTAs had been reported, but none recorded the involvement of the Armitages’ small, dark green Ford Fiesta. He’d started with just Dorset but had soon widened the search to include the neighbouring counties of Wiltshire, Hampshire, Somerset and Devon. Still nothing so he’d opted for the whole of the south of England, to be followed at last by a countrywide search. He leant back in his chair and yawned, running his hand once again through his thinning hair. He looked up to see the lumbering bulk of his boss, Stu Blackman, approaching. He shook his head slowly.

  ‘Nothing?’ the detective sergeant asked.

  ‘Nope. Not the proverbial sausage. You?’ He was aware that his boss had made a start on contacting the A and E departments of the region’s main hospitals.

  ‘Same. Nothing. It’s a puzzle and a half, isn’t it?’ He perched on the corner of McCluskie’s desk. ‘Maybe we’re on the wrong track. Maybe that pain-in-the-neck daughter was right after all. Maybe something has happened to them. Know what I mean?’ He paused. ‘Who would be your bet?’

  McCluskie didn’t hesitate. ‘The son. He’s a right waster and I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. Should we get him in?’

  Blackman smiled slyly. ‘My thoughts exactly.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘But let’s leave it till after lunch. Pub?’

  A look of rapture crept across McCluskie’s reptilian face. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’

  Rod Armitage wasn’t brought in for questioning that afternoon. By the time McCluskie had finished his third whisky chaser and Blackman his second plate of cheesy chips, the urge to confront the younger Armitage offspring had dissipated.

  ‘Let’s leave it until the morning,’ Blackman suggested, ordering another round of drinks. ‘We’ll be fresher then.’

  ‘You’re the boss,’ his assistant replied, knocking the whisky back in one gulp and licking his lips. ‘Maybe a bit more cogitation is called for.’

  ‘Good one, Phil. Cogitation before confrontation. Like it.’

  * * *

  Sharon Giroux usually arrived home before her husband on Wednesdays. She should have been back by two o’clock at the latest, since Wednesday was her designated half day in lieu of the Saturday morning surgery she ran most weekends, but she invariably spent several hours catching up on paperwork and usually didn’t arrive home until well after three.

  She’d called in at her parents’ house on her way home, hoping that they would be at the door, cheerfully waving to her as she walked through the gate, but the bungalow was as dark and silent as on the previous two days. Pierre had been right, there were no bedding plants out. She let herself in and walked through the silent house to the back door, then out into the garden. The lawn looked ragged, as if it hadn’t been mowed for several weeks. She made her way to the greenhouse and her heart sank. There were her father’s prized trays of summer bedding plants, dried up and drooping, forlorn in the warm, dry atmosphere. They clearly hadn’t been watered for well over a week. She filled a watering can and gave the trays a soaking. Was it any use? Some of the plants, so carefully tended by her father since being sown in early March, looked dead already, stems and leaves wilted to a dull brown colour.

  She returned to the house, sat down in the lounge and phoned through to the number left by the detective sergeant the previous morning. There was no answer, so she tried the mobile number, given as an alternative. The phone was answered on the fifth ring but she had trouble making out what the voice on the other end was saying.

  ‘DS Blackman, is that you?’ she asked. ‘It’s Sharon Giroux. Are you there?’

  The voice speaking to her was still unclear. She could only make out about one word in three. ‘Look, I can’t hear what you’re saying. Can you phone me back, please? Maybe we’ll get a better signal with a second attempt.’

  She closed the call and sat for a while, trying to analyse the sounds she’d heard on the phone. The voice had been indistinct but she was sure that she’d picked up other sounds in the background fairly clearly, including what had sounded like the clinking of glasses. Surely they weren’t in a pub, drinking? She waited a further ten minutes but no call came through, so she called again. This time there was far less background noise.

  ‘Why didn’t you call me back as I asked?’ she said.

  ‘Out on investigations,’ came the reply. His voice was slightly slurred.

  ‘What have you discovered?’ she probed.

  ‘Early days still,’ he replied. ‘Be in contact at end of week.’

  With that he’d ended the call, not giving her a chance to explain about the plants. Sharon began to cry, and she sat in her parents’ kitchen for several minutes until the tears subsided. Finally she rose, dried her eyes on a paper tissue and poured herself a glass of water. The bastard. He’d been drinking, she was sure of it. She locked the front door behind her, returned to her car and drove home, her sadness giving way to frustrated anger.

  * * *

  That evening she called the number George Warrander had left on Monday evening, asking him for help. Within half an hour the concerned young uniformed officer was at her front door, although he looked tense. She asked him inside and started to tell him of her increased worries following the discovery of the dying plants in her father’s greenhouse.

  ‘Yes, Dr Giroux, I can see why you are still concerned. But your parents’ disappearance is in the hands of the CID. There’s very little I can do to influence things. Have you told them?’

  Sharon told him of the afternoon’s phone calls.

  ‘They may have been interviewing someone in a pub, Dr Giroux. I’m sure they wouldn’t have been drinking, not heavily anyway, not during an investigation. Look, I’ll email this latest information to them when I get to the station first thing tomorrow morning. I’m on early shift. I’ll also ask them to contact you later tomorrow. Can you suggest a good time?’

  He left the house and nervously scanned the street before stepping out onto the pavement. He couldn’t afford to let his sergeant know that he’d called to see the Armitage daughter. Rose Simons would hit the roof if she found out. He turned the corner onto the main road and instantly slowed. She was facing him, leaning with her back against her squad car, her face white with anger.

  ‘You, my young friend, are in deep shit. Do you think this is the way to get on in my friendly and supportive little empire? Ignoring every instruction I give you? Who do you think you are? Some kind of go-it-alone maverick?’

  ‘She called me because she was totally frustrated, boss. She phoned the unit this afternoon with some new information and she reckons those two detectives were drunk in a pub. They didn’t listen to her.’

  ‘Maybe they’ve already sussed her out as a timewaster. And so she’s sucking you in. And you, fool that you are, fell for it.’

  ‘Boss, with all due respect, I think you’ve got her wrong.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Anyway, my shift finished twenty minutes ago. I was in my own time.’

  ‘But in uniform, so still under my command. Don’t try and worm your way out of this, you little creep. I’ll remember this. Don’t you ever go near that woman again. Do you hear me? Not unless I tell you to.’

  She climbed into her car, slammed the door and drove off, leaving Warrander feeling humiliated and crushed. Was his career in the police already over, when it had only just begun?

  CHAPTER 4: Uppers and Downers

  Thursday, Week 1

  Sharon caught sight of her uncle as she walked through the surgery’s reception area in order to collect a form from one of the secretaries. He waved as he saw her.

  ‘I thought you’d like to know that the bungalow is crawling with people,’ he said. ‘There’s tape
across the front gate and vans parked in the street outside. They seem to be searching the place. I passed by on my way to a job.’

  ‘About bloody time. They must finally be convinced that something odd has happened, though with those two detectives in charge it’s hard to predict anything. Thanks for letting me know, Pete.’ She glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Maybe I’ll have time to call round. I’ve got a slack half hour due to a couple of cancellations.’

  ‘Do you want me to come with you?’

  ‘Thanks, but no. I can handle this, and you have a job to go to. Is Rod still with you?’ She watched the look of concern cross her uncle’s face.

  ‘No. He walked out on me on Tuesday and didn’t come back, so that’s it, I’m afraid. I told him it was a final warning, but he still stormed off in a temper and didn’t appear again. I’ve done all I can for him, Sharon. He was a liability.’

  Sharon nodded. ‘I know. Thanks for what you’ve done for him over the past couple of years. We all realised that it wasn’t easy for you. I know Mum and Dad were grateful. Well, I’d better be off.’ She hurried back to her office to collect her coat and bag.

  * * *

  Sharon parked her car as near to her parents’ house as she could, then walked towards the bungalow, making her way through one or two clusters of people who were standing watching the goings-on. PC Warrander was standing at the entrance gate.

  ‘What’s happened?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothing to worry about, Dr Giroux. We’re just following standard procedure. DC Blackman decided to arrange a forensic check, so that’s what’s happening. I’ll take you in, if you like. You’ve timed it right. I think they’ll need your fingerprints for elimination purposes. The forensic chief is here for a few minutes.’

  They walked to the door and entered the hallway. It seemed to be a hive of activity, with half a dozen people inside the bungalow, all busy with kits of various kinds. A tall, good-looking, middle-aged man looked up as they entered.

  ‘This is Dr Giroux, Mr Nash. She’s the missing couple’s daughter.’

  ‘Hi.’ He held out a hand and smiled at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners. ‘Dave Nash. I’m the county’s chief forensic officer. I only called in to check on progress but I have a few minutes to chat if you want to.’

  Sharon realised that she was holding onto his hand for rather too long and suddenly let it go. ‘Thanks. That would be useful. What can you tell me?’

  ‘We’ve started a basic house check as a result of your parents being reported missing. Dusting for prints, looking for anything unusual or out of place, taking a few samples for auto-analysis. At the moment my staff are following a checklist and they don’t need me here, but I always make a quick visit in person if I can.’

  ‘So you’re the top dog?’ She looked surprised.

  ‘Indeed I am. One of my team will need to take your prints, so if it’s convenient it could be done here.’

  She nodded. ‘Of course. And my brother, he’ll need his taken as well at some point.’

  ‘That’s in hand, Dr Giroux. It’ll take a little while before we can start drawing any conclusions, but my team’s a good one. There’ll be no slip-ups.’

  Sharon felt a weight lift from her shoulders. She gave him a smile. ‘Thanks. That’s what I need, some reassurance. It’s what I’ve been looking for since I reported them missing on Monday, that my concerns are being taken seriously.’ She paused. ‘I’ve just got this feeling that something awful has happened to them. I know it’s illogical, but it’s with me all the time.’

  ‘I can understand that.’ Nash looked at his watch. ‘Better be going. Look, if we do find anything suspicious, that’s when Sophie’s squad will be called in.’

  Sophie’s squad?’

  ‘It’s one of our pet names for the county’s top investigation team. Let’s hope they won’t be needed.’ He turned and left the house.

  She turned to George Warrander. ‘Thanks. I don’t know how much of this was your doing, but I’m grateful, really.’ She smiled, the first time he’d seen her do so since his first visit on Monday. ‘What was that about this so-called top team?’

  George picked his words carefully. ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.’ He didn’t elaborate. ‘Let me take you to one of the forensic people who can take your prints. It saves us a lot of trouble, you calling in like this.’

  * * *

  DS Stu Blackman and his sidekick, Phil McCluskie, were visiting Rod Armitage. It had been obvious that the younger Armitage offspring was in bed when the two detectives first arrived. It had taken several knocks on the door before it had been opened, and even McCluskie had been impressed by the dishevelled state of the man.

  ‘Rise and shine, Mr Armitage, it’s a beautiful day,’ he’d said, with a smile on his face. ‘My, my. We are looking a wee bit the worse for wear, aren’t we? Heavy night?’

  His boss took over at that point, leading Rod to a chair in the sitting area while miming to his assistant that cups of tea might be in order.

  ‘No news yet, Rod,’ Blackman said. ‘I can call you Rod, can’t I? Easier for us. But I’d like a bit more information from you about your parents and your relationship with them. Can you confirm when you last saw them? When was that again?’

  Rod looked blank, scratched his head and yawned again. ‘A couple of weeks ago, it was. I told you that days ago.’

  ‘Yes. I want you to be a bit more specific. An exact day and a precise time would be helpful.’ He looked over Rod’s shoulder at his colleague, standing by the kitchen worktop, and silently indicated that Phil should have a quick look round while waiting for the kettle to boil. McCluskie nodded and started turning over some letters that were untidily piled on the worktop.

  ‘Monday? Tuesday maybe? I remember you saying that it was soon after your sister had left on her family holiday. Does that help?’

  ‘I think it was the Tuesday evening. I would have been about six thirty ’cause I joined them for their meal.’

  ‘Right. What did you have?’

  Rod looked blank. ‘What?’

  ‘What did you have to eat? Your mum cooked it, did she? So what was it? Chicken? Fish? Pizza?’

  ‘Christ, how do you expect me to remember that?’

  ‘Try, Rod. Please try. I wouldn’t have thought it was that difficult. It was probably the last time you saw your mum and dad alive. It’s important.’

  ‘Spaghetti Bolognese, I think. Dad likes it. Not one of my favourites. Why is it important?’

  Blackman ignored the question. ‘That’s a bit surprising, isn’t it? If your mum knew you were coming round, wouldn’t she cook something you liked? Or didn’t she know you’d be arriving?’ He was watching McCluskie who was quietly inspecting the contents of the drawers and cupboards in the kitchen area, finishing with a negative shake of his head.

  ‘No. I was busy at the time so I called on the off-chance.’

  ‘To borrow some money? That’s what you told one of our uniformed colleagues.’ Blackman waited a few seconds. ‘How much was that then, Rod? How much did you borrow?’

  ‘Fifty quid. Look, what is this? What’s it got to do with you?’

  Again the question was ignored. ‘How much did you ask for? More importantly, how much did you actually need? And what did you need it for?’

  ‘My rent was due and I was fifty short. That’s why I asked for fifty and that’s why Mum lent me it.’

  Blackman nodded. ‘So there wasn’t any friction? Not from your dad?’

  ‘He was outside. It’s always easier talking to Mum alone.’

  ‘You mean she’s more of a soft touch? Whereas your dad isn’t?’

  At this point McCluskie, who had just finished checking the room, sat down on the other side of Rod. ‘I bet you could really use a big slab of cash, couldn’t you, Rod?’ he suggested. ‘I mean, not these petty wee amounts, but money that you could really do something with. Thousands, mebbe. Eh? God, what I could do with a few thousa
nd. Holidays, women, the high life. We can but dream. Here’s your tea.’ He passed a mug of steaming liquid across to Rod and another to Blackman. ‘Does your big sister approve of you going round and cadging money from your mother? I bet she doesn’t, does she? I bet she tells your mum not to lend you cash. A bit of a meddler, is she? Bloody sisters, eh? Goody two shoes.’ McCluskie sipped his tea and put the grubby mug down on the nearest surface. ‘Tell us about that wacky baccy that’s in the wee box under the sink, Rod. We’d love to know about it and where you got it.’

  Rod didn’t reply.

  ‘Well now, my friend,’ Blackman said. ‘Here’s how it works. We can have a good look round right now with your permission, and we’ll leave the place tidy. If you make us get a warrant, then we’ll come back with the team and we’ll tear this place apart. The choice is yours, so which is it to be?’

  Rod held his head in his hands.

  * * *

  If anything the room looked tidier after the two detectives had finished their search than it had done before. They’d dumped many of the mouldering food containers in a large plastic bin-bag, creating some much needed space in the cramped flat. On the low table in the middle of the room was a small collection of packets containing a mix of tablets, most of them voluntarily offered up by Rod. The search had only uncovered a few others that he’d forgotten about. They’d found nothing that seemed relevant to the disappearance of his parents.

  ‘We can see that you’re only a user of this stuff, not a dealer,’ said McCluskie, who’d been a member of the drug squad sometime in the distant past. ‘And I have to say, it’s a real mix of junk here. Uppers, downers, the lot. Do you actually know what you’re taking when you pop one of these?’

  Rod shook his head ruefully. ‘Nah. I’m usually a bit pissed.’

  ‘Brave man. Or mebbe more accurately, stupid and foolish man. So what do we do now, Sarge?’ He looked across at Blackman.

  ‘We’ll take the gear and look after it. But we won’t charge you, Mr Armitage, not at present. Let’s just say that we’ll hang on to everything, waiting for co-operation and good behaviour from you. Am I making myself clear? You’re not yet in the proverbial deep shit unless we turn up something else or you do something stupid. Comprenez, amigo?’