TWISTED CRIMES a gripping detective mystery full of suspense

by MICHAEL HAMBLING

  ‘Okay. You think he’s making a move on your role?’

  Woodruff nodded.

  ‘Well, with your dad gone, that does just leave the three of us working the business, doesn’t it? I s’pose someone has to be top dog, and it sure ain’t me. I kind of assumed it’d be you, and I’m sure Tony feels the same. Aren’t you being a bit paranoid?’

  ‘I told him to keep a low profile, yet he’s off up to Long Lartin to visit Ricky Frimwell like a shot. Won’t that set off a few alarms?’

  Griffiths shook his head. ‘No reason to. He knew Ricky and his mum. Could be totally legit as far as the clink’s concerned. And we’re not on anyone’s radar, are we? So why worry?’

  Woodruff finished his drink. ‘Okay, if you say so. I was just a bit worried, that’s all. Don’t breathe a word of this to Tony.’ He got up and left Griffiths’s office.

  Griffiths ran his hand over his head again and leaned back in his chair. That had gone well. He’d let Sorrento know of the meeting once he returned. Tony’s plan was beginning to come together, judging by the text message he’d received from him just a few minutes ago. He, Justin, had suspected for some time that Wayne was far more unpleasant than anyone supposed and might even be involved with some recent cases of intimidation and violence. If Tony had really found a way to oust their new leader, then he was all for it, but it wouldn’t be easy. After the death of Phil, Wayne was the majority shareholder now, surely?

  CHAPTER 15: A Blessing in Disguise

  Wednesday Night, Week 2

  Bournemouth’s central gardens is a long ribbon of lawns and flower beds that runs south towards the beach area and cuts through the centre of the town, following the bubbling water of the Bourne Stream as it flows towards the sea. On a warm, bright evening the paths are used by a large number of people as they make their way towards the bars and clubs near the waterfront. Not so tonight. A chilly wind had set in from the east. Tony Sorrento, sitting on a secluded park bench set amid shrubbery, yawned and stretched out his legs. He looked up as a dark figure approached and sat down beside him.

  ‘Why the need for this?’ Sorrento asked. ‘I bloody hate having to come out at night. It makes me feel like a fucking criminal. It had better be important.’

  ‘It is,’ came the gruff reply. ‘You’ve cropped up on the radar.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard what I said. Woodruff Holdings is now on the official investigation list. I hope you’re squeaky clean.’

  ‘How the hell did that happen? Jesus. This is unbelievable.’

  ‘A black Range Rover was parked near Wareham Forest on Saturday, and there was some kind of mix-up at a funeral last month. Neither by themselves would be worth a second thought, but when they generate the same name someone’s likely to show an interest, particularly when a double murder is involved.’

  Sorrento looked angry. ‘It was never meant to be murder, that’s what I was led to believe. It was meant to be some kind of weird suicide pact. I only found out about it when it reached the papers.’

  The visitor shook his head. ‘It was murder alright. They were drugged, then driven to that spot. It showed up during the post mortem. And some clever-clogs taped the hosepipe to the exhaust and pushed it through the window, but then took the tape away with them. How stupid can you get? The crazy thing is, it got put back Monday night after I got a message to Wayne about it. Who did that? What’s going on here, Tony?’

  ‘Jesus, I knew nothing about any of this until they discovered the bodies. I just got a message a couple of weeks ago that the problem had been sorted and the old couple wouldn’t talk. I had no idea they were dead. I thought they’d just taken a sweetener of a couple of grand. Then I got word that they’d killed themselves, but that all changed when it hit the papers so I went for a look-see on Saturday. That’s when my car must have been spotted.’

  ‘It was yours, was it?’

  Sorrento nodded. ‘But it’s registered to the company. I parked a mile away, way over west. And there were other cars there. Why mine, for God’s sake? Who reported it?’

  ‘Only the bloody SIO. She was there that morning, snooping around, and you must have set some alarm bells ringing in that suspicious mind of hers.’

  Sorrento cast his mind back a few days, trying to remember the scene. ‘Blonde? Middle-aged?’

  His visitor nodded. ‘That’s her. Allen. Detective Chief Inspector Sophie Allen. She whistles and everyone dances to her tune.’

  An awful realisation hit Sorrento. ‘Christ. Isn’t she the one that nailed Frimwell and Duff?’

  ‘That’s right. Why are you so interested in them?’

  ‘I visited Frimwell today in prison. I drove up to Evesham with a business proposition for him.’

  ‘As long as you didn’t use the name Woodruff you should be okay. It’s that name that’s surfaced, not yours.’

  Sorrento calmed down. ‘And the other link was the funeral?’

  ‘Apparently the oldies went to Phil’s funeral by mistake. Is that right? They must have told someone in the family about it, which is how we got to know.’

  Sorrento nodded.

  ‘Why was that a problem? Why weren’t they just left to forget the whole thing? They were probably half senile, for God’s sake.’

  ‘That’s what I told Wayne. But he’d handed over a wodge of cash to our friendly, bent councillor right slap-bang in front of them. I bet they didn’t even notice, but someone obviously got paranoid about it. Christ, talk about over-reaction.’ He remained silent for a few moments, thinking fast. ‘You know, this might not be a disaster after all. As long as it’s Woodruff’s name that’s hit the lights, it might all work out in our favour.’

  His visitor looked at him shrewdly. ‘Do I sense some devious plotting going on, Tony? Are you up to something?’

  ‘No need for you to know too much. You’ll be well looked after if it all turns out okay. Try and deflect any interest, but if things do start to go pear-shaped, make sure it’s all directed at Wayne. If you must know, we’re planning a bit of a coup, and this could help it on its way. In fact the whole episode might be a bit of a blessing in disguise.’

  ‘I’m hanging fire on the whole thing, Tony, because I don’t really know what my position is now that Phil’s dead. I had a deal with him that stretched way back. I don’t like Wayne, which is why I contacted you rather than him. He’s too unpredictable and I can’t afford that, not in my position. The last thing I can afford at this stage in my career is to get involved with an impulsive thug like Woodruff Junior. The deal I had going with Phil was fairly low level, and it was never going to be noticed. But with Wayne? Who knows what direction he’ll eventually head off in. And Phil would never have got himself mixed up in murder. What you’re saying about taking over makes me feel a wee bit better, but I still need time to think about it. I’ll do what I can, but with her tenacious ladyship in charge we might all have to ease off until this mess gets sorted. I’ll be back in touch after that, okay?’

  He got up and disappeared into the night.

  * * *

  Marilyn Mitchell waited for Gordon to come off the phone before tackling him.

  ‘Was that Tony Sorrento?’ she asked.

  He nodded.

  ‘Listen, Gordon, it’s time you got a completely different job and severed links with that crew. I know what they’re like and I know the type of work you do for them. If you don’t do it soon you’ll become more and more embroiled, and it’ll get harder to make a clean break. Are you in debt to them still? Do they have any hold over you?’

  Gordon shook his head and sat down beside her. ‘No. I finished paying them what I owed a couple of years ago.’

  ‘In that case, what’s holding you back?’

  ‘It’s the money. I couldn’t make anywhere close to what I earn now, not if I shifted elsewhere. I never got any proper qualifications for my line of work, even though I’m good at it. That means no one would take me on, not at my age. I’d have to pa
y my way through a couple of college courses and get some certificates.’

  She reached across and took his hand. ‘But why would that be a problem? You could do it if it was necessary, Gordon. It would only be a year or two, and we could make ends meet for a while. Maybe you could get a job locally while you did the college course. Or I could, once the baby’s here.’

  ‘Even if I got some qualifications I could never earn as much as they pay me. And that worries me.’

  ‘Do you think that really matters to me? I hate to see you as unhappy as you’ve been in recent months. I want my happy, contented husband back, and I’m willing to make sacrifices to do it. Can I make it any clearer to you?’ She leant closer and kissed his lips, curling her fingers around the back of his neck. ‘It might be now or never, Gordon. I’m worried that things are going to get worse for you while you’re with them. I can see that you’ve been worried sick for the last few weeks. Can you talk about what’s bothering you?’

  ‘Tony’s manoeuvring to take over. He doesn’t trust Wayne’s judgement. He says that Wayne can veer between being ultra-cautious one day and a real loose cannon the next. Tony wants things tidied up so we know where we are. If he succeeds in his expansion plans, then it’ll be more money for all of us, he says, but a helluva lot more work too. It worries me. I was getting sick of all the in-fighting before this latest business, and I feel even more negative now.’

  Marilyn felt the baby move, and stroked her stomach. ‘It’s different now, Gordon, with this one being a girl. I keep thinking that when she’s born it will mark a turning point for us, and I want it to be the right kind of change. I want you to feel proud of who you are and proud of us. And I want her and the boys to be proud of you, and none of this can happen while you’re with the Woodruffs and that man Sorrento. Please, for my sake, start planning the break. I’ll help in any way I can. Trust me.’

  CHAPTER 16: Sleepover

  Wednesday Evening, Week 2

  Barry Marsh, the detective sergeant in Sophie’s unit, had a cautious and careful approach to his work. He took some time to assimilate new ideas, particularly when they had the potential to derail a line of inquiry that he’d spent some time working on. Sophie’s suggestion that someone might have leaked the news about the missing reel of tape had really shocked him. His first thought had been, surely not. But he’d come to see that the only other explanation was coincidence, that the killer had realised the error on that precise day, having forgotten about it for more than two weeks. How likely was that? Coincidences happen for sure, but in this particular case the chances were slim. Which left him with the unpleasant alternative. Someone with access to the incident board from mid-afternoon on Monday was somehow involved and had passed the vital information on.

  He glanced again at the list he’d constructed and thought through the possibilities, weighing up the people involved. Sophie, himself and Rae — not unless the world had gone mad. The chief superintendent, Matt Silver, and DS Bob Thompson — certainly not. Blackman and McCluskie, somewhat slapdash detectives — unlikely, although McCluskie could have an axe to grind, and the duo certainly seemed to operate in a world of their own. A couple of local officers, but they all seemed so reliable. The dead man’s brother, Pete Armitage — he’d been around the station, but no one had seen him enter or leave the incident room unaccompanied. But even if he was involved, what would he gain? Barry had already spoken to the member of the cleaning staff responsible for the incident room and felt fairly sure that she wasn’t the type to gossip.

  His mood wasn’t helped by the fact that he still hadn’t remembered why the name Woodruff seemed to stir up something in the dusty recesses of his mind. It was something from long ago, he was sure of it. But he just couldn’t come up with anything. He’d just have to wait and hope that he would remember at some point. He needed an evening off, just to relax. He sent a quick text message to his girlfriend, Gwen, who lived in Southampton, suggesting a meal out. Her reply was quick in coming. ‘Curry,’ it read. ‘And stay over please.’

  He relaxed. He’d been working nonstop on the case since the discovery of the bodies, and a short break would be very welcome, even if it was just a single night. Was curry a good precursor to sex, though? Maybe he should forego his usual chicken madras in favour of something a bit milder.

  * * *

  ‘That’s not your usual choice, Barry. Lamb bhuna? What’s come over you? Should I be worried?’ Gwen Davis took another bite out of her crispy popadum, lavishly covered with mixed pickle.

  ‘Of course not,’ he replied indignantly. ‘Worried about what, anyway? I just fancied a change.’

  ‘That’s what I mean. Does this mean the writing’s on the wall for us as a couple? I mean, where’s it all going to end, this strange wish of yours for new experiences?’ She looked across at his perplexed face and winked at him.

  ‘Don’t do that, Gwen. It worries me. The boss winks at me sometimes, and I never know what it means.’

  Gwen laughed again. ‘I bet you do really. It just signifies a bit of gentle teasing. What confuses you is that it’s coming from a woman, and that’s the bit men find hard to deal with. It’s okay for men to wink at women, but you can’t cope when it’s the other way round. You’re a sorry lot, perpetually hung up on your lost power. It was all fine when you men had the upper hand, as if it was yours by some god-given right, but it’s not so easy now, is it?’ She winked again.

  Barry sighed and took a swig of lager. ‘Can we talk about something else now?’

  ‘I like your new shirt. Very sexy. Good choice of colour for you.’

  ‘But you chose it, Gwen. It was one of your Christmas presents to me.’

  She giggled again. ‘Did I? That’s good. I was worried I might be losing my sense of style.’

  She slid her right foot out of her shoe and started to run it up his leg, but Barry’s embarrassment was cut short by the approach of a waiter bringing their starters. ‘Onion bhaji. Bliss,’ was all Gwen said for the next five minutes.

  ‘How long have you been a curry fan?’ he asked, as Gwen laid down her fork.

  ‘Centuries, I expect. I must have had several previous incarnations in Indian palaces, being fed fine food by my own personal slaves. I just love it. What about you?’

  ‘It was when I was a beat copper in Bournemouth. Bob Thompson and I used to get a takeaway sometimes when we finished our shift. Only once a week, mind. I suppose it was a bit of a bachelor thing. Curry and beer. To be honest, I never enjoyed it much then, but our local takeaway was pretty crappy, though we didn’t realise it at the time. It’s only when you’ve been to a few good places that you realise how good curry can be.’

  ‘It’s like everything else, Barry. Quality matters. Too many people stuff themselves stupid with cheap junk and then feel bloated for days afterwards. It’s much better to come to a place like this that doesn’t overfill your plate but gets the taste right. So you never went to a restaurant?’

  ‘No, not often. We’d have a couple of pints in the pub and then go to the takeaway next door. We shared digs only five minutes away, so we’d go home, put our feet up, switch the telly on and tuck in. The takeaway lost trade when an Indian restaurant opened in the area which served up better food, and it finally closed. The place is an organic cafe now, and it’s meant to be pretty good. The pub’s still there. Interesting name — the Rising Moon.’

  ‘I was never into takeaways,’ Gwen replied. ‘I like the whole experience with the music and the decor. It’s even better when the staff are in authentic dress.’ She waited. ‘Barry? Are you okay?’

  His mind was elsewhere. The Rising Moon pub. That was it! It had been owned by someone called Woodruff. What was the first name? Phil? A slightly dubious character, who used to boast about his over-ambitious plans for expansion. Pie in the sky, that’s what he and Thompson had thought. He felt a sharp kick on his leg.

  ‘Barry. For goodness sake! Either put that forkful of food in your mouth or back on your p
late. It’s not a pretty sight hovering halfway, with your mouth hanging open.’

  ‘Sorry. Just thought of something.’

  ‘You don’t say? I’d never have guessed.’ Gwen rolled her eyes.

  CHAPTER 17: Follow the Money

  Thursday Morning, Week 2

  Marsh was whistling a tune as he made his way up the stairs to the incident room next morning. As he entered the office, he saw that most of the occupants were looking at him. He blushed slightly as he made his way to the incident board.

  ‘Whatever that was, it sounded cheerful,’ was Sophie’s comment. ‘It’s not often we hear whistling around here. Do it more regularly, Barry. It helps break up the morbid atmosphere. Did you recognise it, Rae?’

  ‘Auld Lang Syne? God Save the Queen? The Ace of Spades? Can’t be sure.’ Rae kept a straight face.

  He decided to laugh it off. ‘To be honest, I don’t know what it was. I was just feeling a bit more cheery than normal. I remembered where I’d come across the name Woodruff before, ma’am. It was ages ago when I was a beat cop in Bournemouth. Phil Woodruff ran a pub in the Pokesdown area called the Rising Moon, and it’s still there. I passed it on my way in this morning and took a look. The Woodruff name is still above the door, but with a different initial. It’s probably run by someone else in the family, now that he’s dead.’

  Rae looked puzzled. ‘But it must be coincidence, ma’am. It’s been niggling me since we made the link. Why would the fact that the Armitage couple mistakenly went into the wrong funeral have caused them to be murdered? This isn’t the backstreets of downtown Chicago. It’s too bizarre. There must be some other connection, surely?’

  Sophie was still looking at Marsh. ‘You passed Pokesdown on your way in? To Blandford? Where were you coming from? Ah, now I know why you feel like whistling. I’m not a detective for nothing, you know.’

  Rae looked from one to the other. ‘I don’t understand this conversation.’