‘Did you speak to him?’ Rae asked.
‘No. I was still making my way from the car park and he seemed to be in a bit of a hurry.’
‘We may be back in touch to get the details, Mrs Willis.’
Rae continued working through the list. A couple of people recognised a pub landlord from Bournemouth and the manager of a casino in the area. Rae thought the former could be the Woodruff from the Rising Moon pub. There were several false sightings, including one elderly woman who claimed that she’d spotted Sean Connery, still looking like the James Bond of Goldfinger days. Two people remembered a man with a scar on his face and several recalled the Armitage couple saying that they’d attended the earlier service by mistake. Finally Rae reached the end of the list. As far as she could see, the person of most interest was the councillor. She would need to discuss this with the boss before she went any further.
She didn’t have long to wait. ‘It was a fairly small congregation, ma’am. I’ve got these three to follow up, but my guess is that there weren’t even twenty people there.’
‘It was a committal, Rae. The full service had already taken place elsewhere, probably in a church. This would have been for family and close friends only.’
‘Should I try to find out about that? We might get better information.’
‘Make it indirect, and don’t approach anybody yet. Just find out where it was for the time being. Meanwhile, visit these three and find out what they remember. Do a bit of digging into the background of this councillor, but keep everything low key. We can’t afford to let any of this out at the moment.’
* * *
Rae worked until late. The councillor was certainly a man of interest. He’d served in a variety of roles during his time on the council, stretching back several decades. Planning and development, licensing, highways and byways, Councillor Blythe had been involved with most aspects of council work over the years. Why would he have attended the committal for Phil Woodruff? The boss had said it would have been for immediate family and possibly extremely close friends. She left that line of inquiry for the time being and scanned through the online records of the local newspapers. Sure enough, just before the short service at the crematorium, there had been a church funeral for Phil Woodruff in St Bede’s RC Church. Surely the councillor would have gone to that service rather than to the committal? She checked the council website, tracking back through the planning meetings. There was the reason — the timing. It clashed with a cabinet meeting discussing future hotel development plans. The meeting was recorded as having finished at the same time as the main funeral got under way. So the councillor had gone directly to the crematorium. Rae printed everything out, including the agenda for the meeting. This was becoming very interesting.
She then switched her attention to their suspected mole, and checked his record in the police force. There wasn’t a lot. The problem was that she couldn’t access the detailed service records without authorisation, and without the search being logged. She’d have to give up on that and think of a more subtle method. Social media? She checked his profile, using a made up one of her own. Keen on pubs and varieties of beer — no surprise there from what she’d heard. Hobbies included fish and chips, pizza and Manchester United FC. Why the latter? There’s no accounting for a person’s footballing preference, she thought, wearily. A few bigoted postings about gays and women, but she’d seen worse. Nevertheless, it was a little troubling when it was all put together. This man was a police officer, and supposedly respected by the community he served. Could she respect someone who posted such small-minded comments?
Rae sat back and thought, then connected to the Registry of Births, Deaths and Marriages, selecting the historical marriage category. She keyed in “Blythe, Thomas. Married between 1970 and 1990 in Dorset.” And there it was. In 1989 the councillor had married Carol Frimwell. A feeling of dread came over Rae. She knew what that name meant to the DCI. Marsh had told her about it soon after she’d begun. He’d warned Rae never to mention the names Frimwell or Duff to the boss without good reason. And now the name had cropped up. What was his name? Ricky? He’d be somewhere in the prison system now. Out of curiosity she entered the name Woodruff into the same set of records. Bingo! Up came an entry for the same district, along with something unbelievable. Wayne Woodruff had married a Susan Frimwell six months later. Could that be right? She kept searching, and there it was. Susan and Carol Frimwell, twin girls born in 1964. She looked at the clock. After nine in the evening. Time to go. She had plenty of leads to follow up the next day.
CHAPTER 23: Barbecue
Friday Evening, Week 2
The Mitchells had been invited to a barbecue party at Wayne Woodruff’s luxurious home, a villa in an upmarket district of Poole. A local catering company had set up a large barbecue unit on the rear patio, and dishes of salads, cheeses and cold meats lined a long trestle table. A smartly dressed waiter manned a bar, handing out glasses of champagne and chilled wine.
‘Is there a reason for this party?’ Marilyn asked. ‘It was a bit short notice, wasn’t it?’
Gordon shrugged. ‘We’re about to expand, apparently. The preliminary deal’s been agreed, so by next month we should own twice the number of premises we do at the moment. It’s a celebration party.’
‘I always feel uneasy with these people, Gordon,’ she whispered. ‘You know that. Why did we have to come?’
‘They’ve offered me better terms. I’m thinking of accepting.’
She turned to face him. ‘What? I thought we’d agreed that you were going to get out?’
‘It’s been very quick, everything’s happened in the last couple of days. And we’re moving into total legitimacy. Everything completely above board. I insisted on it and Wayne’s agreed. I’ll have a new role. I won’t be Tony’s dogsbody, not any more. It’s a better opportunity, Marilyn. And my earnings will double.’
‘Double?’
‘Exactly. I couldn’t turn it down, not under those terms. The money’s more than we ever dreamed of.’
Marilyn still looked troubled. ‘It was never the money, Gordon. I told you that. I just thought you deserved better than having to run around after that Tony Sorrento.’ She looked around. ‘Where is he, by the way?’
‘No idea. I expected him to be here. He hasn’t been in since yesterday.’
She sniffed. ‘Well, maybe I can relax and enjoy the evening after all. He always seems to be watching people, calculating how to manipulate them, working out how to get the upper hand. I can’t say that I particularly like Wayne either. He seems a bit moody and unpredictable. I always feel that his eyes are all over me. But Justin’s okay.’ She looked across at Griffiths, standing by himself on the lawn. ‘Don’t you think he looks a bit worried? He seems on edge. Let’s have a chat.’
Close to, Griffith’s face was pinched with worry. ‘Are you okay, Justin?’ she asked.
He appeared to shake himself. ‘Yes, fine. Sorry, just worried about a few things at home. Nothing important.’
‘I was saying to Gordon, I’m surprised Tony’s not here. Not that I miss him.’ Marilyn had never hidden her dislike of Sorrento, even to the man himself.
‘I haven’t seen him all day,’ Griffiths replied. ‘It’s not like him. He’s always at work, rain or shine. And he always gets a message to you if he’s elsewhere, doesn’t he, Gordy?’
‘I haven’t heard anything from him either,’ Gordon said. ‘I wouldn’t worry though. He can look after himself. He might seem a bit abrasive but he’s a good bloke underneath. He’s never let me down.’
‘Gordon’s just been telling me about his new job offer. I don’t know whether to offer congratulations or hit him,’ Marilyn added.
The effect on Griffiths was unexpected. He looked at Marilyn as if she’d just spoken in a foreign language, then switched his gaze to Gordon. ‘Jesus,’ he muttered, and walked away.
‘I take it he didn’t know?’ she said.
‘Obviously not. I thought Wa
yne had told him. I don’t think it matters. I’ll maybe go and have a few words and smooth things over.’
Gordon followed Griffiths into the house. Marilyn stood alone, sipping her glass of water. Soon she was joined by Wayne’s wife, Sue, a curvy blonde who’d rarely given her the time of day before. Sue brought a glass of bubbly and asked how she was. What on earth was going on?
* * *
At the end of the evening, Justin Griffiths walked to his car, ready for the drive home. He was a careful man, predictable and unadventurous. He’d only been in his current role with the Woodruffs for three years, having been one of their more successful pub managers before that. He was uneasy. Sorrento had been the decision-maker, the man of ideas. And now he’d disappeared. It wasn’t like his boss to just vanish without leaving a message. There had been no answer to his phone calls and no response when Justin had visited Sorrento’s house that morning. But what really worried him was Wayne’s lack of concern. He didn’t seem remotely interested, suggesting merely that he, Justin, should ensure that all Sorrento’s current tasks were dealt with, either by Gordy or himself. He’d even suggested how the work could be divided.
It was unlike Wayne to be that organised. He’d usually panic at the approach of any crisis, leaving it to one of his three assistants to sort out the mess. But this had been different, almost as if he’d been prepared. Maybe some information had passed between Woodruff and Sorrento the previous day. Gordy was concerned too, judging by what he’d said in their brief chat. No one liked Sorrento much, but he got things done and that was important in a setup like theirs.
He climbed into his car, yawned and started the engine. Time to go home. He could think things through next week, in the office. Maybe Sorrento would be back by then.
* * *
In his cell in Long Lartin prison, Ricky Frimwell was re-reading a short letter from his younger sister, Sue Woodruff. He couldn’t help but smile. Maybe it was time he changed his opinion of her. She seemed to be a real canny operator, underestimated by everyone who came into contact with her. He had decoded her carefully worded message and judged the new state of play. Her ideas seemed good and would bring some benefits to the Frimwell family. If some of Woodruff’s mob of fuckwits thought they’d take over most of his old operation then the joke was on them. He knew where the real power lay and, with Sorrento no longer on the scene, he could start flexing his muscles, even from his prison cell. Life was beginning to get more tolerable.
And then the downside hit him. All his efforts had channelled power towards his half-sisters, Sue and Carol. Carol had always been a bit of an air-head, easily manipulated. But what about Sue? She’d always resisted him in the past. Would she do what she was told now? If she didn’t, it would be a problem. Not just a problem, more like a fucking catastrophe. She had the shares. What if she went her own way at the last minute? Fuck.
CHAPTER 24: Sanitised
Early Saturday Morning, Week 2
When Barry Marsh arrived in the incident room with Sophie, Rae was already there and hard at work. She was so engrossed in a phone conversation that she didn’t even acknowledge his wave, so he made his way to the kettle and made a coffee. He’d only just sat down at his desk when he realised that she’d sidled across, and was glancing sideways at the DCI’s office.
‘Can we go out for a walk, boss?’
Marsh looked up at her serious face and decided not to make a joke of the invitation. ‘Okay.’
‘Separately? Meet you in the car park in a couple of minutes?’
He watched her leave, then followed her, catching up with her outside. ‘What’s with the skulduggery?’
Rae took a deep breath. ‘Wayne Woodruff’s wife is Ricky Frimwell’s sister. Her name is Susan. They married in 1989. You told me never to mention the name to the boss, so I’m bringing it to you.’
Marsh stood open-mouthed.
‘And it doesn’t stop there. Susan has a twin sister, Carol. She married Thomas Blythe, also in 1989. Thomas Blythe is now Councillor Blythe. And guess what? I have a witness that spotted the good councillor at that ropey funeral, the one the Armitages went to by mistake.’
‘Christ. Give me time to get my head around this.’
‘I can’t, because I haven’t finished. I found out that Ricky Frimwell is in Long Lartin Prison so I contacted them first thing. That’s who I was talking to when you came in. I asked them if there’s been anything unusual in his behaviour recently. There hasn’t, but he’s had several unexpected visitors this week, including, on Wednesday, a man with a scar on his face. He signed in as Tony Sorrento, from Bournemouth. I think I’ve found your man, and a whole lot more besides.’ She paused. ‘I’m out of my depth. I don’t know what to do.’
Barry remained silent for what seemed to be an age. ‘We have to take it to the boss. It’s way beyond me as well. The name fits, by the way. The boss was just telling me that she was on the phone to DI McGreedie in Bournemouth last night, and the facial scar rang a bell. He came back to her with the same name early this morning.’
‘How will she react?’
‘It should be okay. It was Duff that killed her father, not Frimwell. There wasn’t a problem when we nabbed Frimwell. Duff was a different matter, though.’ He thought back two years to that horrific case. Surely nothing could ever be as bad as that again? ‘She’ll be alright with it, I’m sure.’
‘What are they like? I need to know, boss.’
‘They’re both violent, manipulative psychopaths. I heard Duff has completely lost his marbles and is in a secure unit, so we probably don’t need to worry about him. He was the worst. Frimwell is his nephew. Nasty, devious and angry. Not a good combination.’ He paused. ‘Okay. Are you ready for this?’
Rae nodded.
‘Let’s go then.’
They walked back inside and climbed the stairs to the incident room and Sophie’s office.
‘Ma’am, we have some important developments for you. Rae’s made several breakthroughs, but they involve a name that you might not want to hear.’ Barry sounded tense.
‘I wondered. I saw the two of you sidle off, hoping I wouldn’t notice. Okay, get on with it, Rae.’
She sat listening intently as Rae recounted her story, occasionally closing her eyes. ‘There’s no chance of a mistake here, Rae? Is there any way you can double check?’
‘I’m pretty certain, ma’am. But I’m limited as to what I can use to verify it all. Ideally I’d like to meet them somehow, but we can’t do that yet, can we?’
‘No, but you’re our secret weapon, Rae. You’re new to the area, and they haven’t met you yet, whereas Barry and I are known to them. I’m not going to trust this to Blackman and McCluskie. It’s too sensitive.’ She thought for a while. ‘Barry and I will go and pay another visit to that pub, this time officially. It’s the registered address of Woodruff’s business and seems to have the company offices on the upper floor, according to Kevin. I want to find out more about Sorrento and his place in their operations so, now we know he’s dead, we have an ideal opportunity to ask some awkward questions.’ She paused. ‘How did you get on to all this Rae? I thought you were investigating our mole?’
‘I was. I had the idea of identifying people at the funeral in case he was there. Then this just fell into my lap.’
‘Well done, whatever you were up to. You get back to work and we’ll visit Pokesdown. You can drive, Barry. I need to think.’
Marsh led the way back out to the car park. She’d taken that news well, he thought. But the implications were huge. Was there some kind of link between the Woodruffs and the old Duff gang? Please God no, he thought. But there was a sinking feeling in his stomach. He could remember a group of friends and family who’d attended the Frimwell trial occasionally. Had there been two women who looked alike? He couldn’t remember. It had been a trial that he’d tried hard to forget.
* * *
It was too early in the morning for the pub itself to be open, but Marsh spotted a
side door marked “Private” with a bell beside it. He rang and they waited.
A freckle-faced man in his late thirties opened the door, not one of the three they’d seen in the bar a few days earlier. Marsh held out his warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Marsh and this is Detective Inspector Allen. We’re investigating the suspicious death of Tony Sorrento. We understand he worked here.’
The man’s mouth hung open. ‘Christ. Tony’s dead? Surely there’s been a mistake?’
‘Middle-aged? Tall with dark hair? A thin scar down the left side of his face?’
‘That sounds like Tony,’ the man replied.
‘Can we come in? It really isn’t convenient standing out here like this.’
The look of confusion was replaced by one of wariness. ‘Of course. I can find an empty office. There’s no one else here at this time on a Saturday morning. I’ve only come in to do some filing.’
The two detectives followed him up a flight of stairs.
‘And you are. . ?’ asked Sophie.
‘I’m Gordon Mitchell, the company secretary. Look, this is a total shock. Tony was my boss. I had no idea.’ He stopped at an office and ushered them in, moving a few chairs aside so that they could sit down.
‘Is there a photo of Mr Sorrento available?’ asked Marsh. ‘We’re having trouble tracing his family or friends.’
‘He was single and, as far as I’m aware, his parents are both dead. I’m not surprised you can’t find anyone.’ He opened a drawer and pulled out a framed photo of two men at what appeared to be a formal reception. One was him, the other was Sorrento.
‘Can we keep the photo? It does look to be the person who was found dead yesterday.’
‘Whereabouts was this? What happened?’
‘We’re not at liberty to say at the moment, sir. Not until we’ve traced a next of kin. But there are some questions we need to ask. First off, what was Mr Sorrento’s role in the company?’
TWISTED CRIMES a gripping detective mystery full of suspense Page 14