BURIED CRIMES: a gripping detective thriller full of twists and turns

by MICHAEL HAMBLING

  ‘Fine,’ Hannah replied. ‘There’s a really interesting one just down the road. It has puppets on a shelf above the bar, but more importantly the beer is terrific.’

  Pauline laughed. ‘Beer? A slip of a girl like you?’

  ‘It’s something I inherited from my parents, both of them. My mum’s just as keen on a good pint as my dad is. You wouldn’t think so to look at her, but she keeps herself very fit. I try to do the same but it doesn’t always work. On cold mornings I’m more likely to stay in bed than go out running.’

  ‘Was that your father who was there on Sunday? He didn’t say very much. Good-looking though.’

  ‘I don’t know whether I approve of that!’ Hannah laughed.

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘He’s a teacher. He’s assistant principal at a big secondary school and head of the maths department. He’s great. I love both of them.’

  They found a table and Hannah bought a beer for herself and a brandy for Pauline. They had a second drink, this time two brandies that Pauline bought. Hannah took a sip, looked at the glass and guessed it was a double. Did she really want to wake up with a splitting headache tomorrow? Why had Pauline bought them both so much drink? She took another sip and realised that her companion seemed to have moved closer. She could feel Pauline’s thigh touching hers.

  * * *

  Hannah arrived back at her apartment just as her two flatmates appeared in the kitchen for breakfast. The three of them had been close friends at school and had decided to flat-share when they all found they were to be students in London.

  ‘How did your evening go?’ Marie, an economics student, asked. She still sounded half asleep.

  ‘Well, it was interesting. Quite enjoyable really.’

  Jess, more alert, nudged Marie. ‘She’s still in the dress she wore last night. She’s only just got back in. Well, well, well, Hannah Allen. Sit down, have some tea and tell us all about it. We’re all ears.’

  ‘I thought you were meeting an actress?’ yawned Marie.

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘So did you meet someone else afterwards?’

  ‘No.’

  There was a stunned silence. ‘Does that mean what I think it means?’ asked Marie. ‘I mean, I know I shouldn’t pry, but . . . I don’t quite know what to say.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Hannah replied. ‘I might be part lesbian, but I really don’t fancy either of you two. I know how infrequently you wash your knickers.’

  ‘Will you be seeing her again?’ gasped Jess.

  ‘Maybe occasionally, but she’s a lot older than me. We both agreed not to make a thing of it.’

  ‘Hannah . . . what was it like? I mean . . . For fuck’s sake. Can you just swan in and tell us this? Well, you just have, so I suppose the answer to that is yes. Jesus, I would never have guessed.’

  ‘I think I must take after one of my aunts. She’s bisexual, though she doesn’t spread it around. And to save you asking the question, no, this wasn’t my first time. I don’t think it’ll be my last, either.’

  ‘But what about Russell? I thought you two were an item. What happens to you now?’ Jess asked. ‘You know, this might be the first time I wish I’d opted to do behavioural psychology rather than engineering.’

  Hannah shrugged. ‘We’ll have to see, won’t we? Russell is not at the forefront of my mind just now.’ She looked at the clock. ‘Particularly since I’m due at a seminar.’ She drained her cup, but sat on at the table. There was an awkward silence. ‘I am a drama student, remember. Sometimes I just feel the need to rehearse.’ After several moments Hannah broke into a smile and winked at her friends. ‘Actually, despite the fact that she was very attractive, she was far too old for me.’

  ‘You utter little tosser! I can’t believe I fell for it,’ Jess complained loudly. ‘What did you actually do last night then?’

  ‘Russell came to pick me up from the pub. What happened between then and now is strictly between the two of us.’

  ‘Time for toast?’ Marie asked.

  ‘Thanks, but no. One thing I will say is that he cooks a brilliant breakfast. I don’t think I’ll be able to eat again until this evening.’

  ‘The world will end before you miss out on lunch, Little Miss Greedy,’ said Marie. ‘One thing we do know about you is that your first love is food. It’s also your second, third and fourth loves. Whatever else we’ve learned about you today, it will be a long way back in your affection rankings compared to a good nosh-up.’

  Hannah paused at the doorway and laughed.

  Chapter 20: Camberwell Beauties

  Wednesday morning, week 2

  ‘So all four of them died, probably within four years of each other? It’s mind-blowing, ma’am. I can’t quite take it in.’ Rae was commenting on Sophie’s report about the two Camberwell parents.

  The team were assembled around the central table in the incident room, along with five local detectives. Sophie was now in charge of a much larger squad. She’d decided that she couldn’t afford to wait until the children’s identity was officially confirmed. She would assume that they were the Camberwell twins and plan her strategy accordingly. The ACC at headquarters had agreed immediately, so all available resources were now being put at her disposal.

  ‘We have to bear in mind that it could all be coincidence. There was never any indication that Richard’s death was anything other than a tragic accident. It’s also entirely possible that Li Hua’s death was just a random hit and run, though the nature of the collision was suspicious, to me anyway. Barry and I visited the place where it happened, and we couldn’t see why anyone would be travelling well in excess of forty miles per hour in a narrow suburban street like that. The unofficial guess was that the driver was doing at least fifty. It’s possible it might have been someone high on drink or drugs, but it wasn’t an area noted for that type of thing. And if it had been some local tearaway, the local bobbies would have expected to find the car fairly quickly, probably burned out on some nearby wasteland. It’s never been found. Someone disposed of it very carefully.’

  ‘Did they do a thorough search?’ asked one of the local team.

  Barry answered. ‘Yes, I think so. The local crime unit seem to have done everything by the book. They even staged a partial reconstruction with a dummy body. They tried to find the car from paint fragments found on her coat but nothing turned up. It was dark blue paint from a Ford, a very common colour. If the car was dumped, it wasn’t anywhere in the Bristol area. They did a check of local cars in that particular colour, but none had any evidence of front-end damage.’

  ‘It implies careful planning,’ Rae suggested. ‘It fits with someone thinking this through very carefully in advance.’

  ‘But what would the motive be? Why would someone kill her? She was a popular, highly regarded GP, a mother of two young children. What was to gain?’ a local detective said.

  Marsh replied, ‘well, she might have been killed by her husband. We know from their headmaster that the children had a mother with them when they first arrived. She came to a couple of school events. So it seems fairly certain that Richard remarried. Li Hua’s death freed him to marry again.’

  Sophie was growing impatient. ‘Let’s not waste time speculating. We’ll have to go back through the records to find out what happened before her death, and afterwards. Did he really marry again or was it merely hearsay? If so, how long afterwards? Who was she? We want to find out more about the relationship between Li Hua and Richard. When did they marry? Where? Were they happy? Let’s try to trace any family and interview them. Leave the speculation to Barry and me at present.’

  ‘One thing, ma’am. Can we be sure that Richard’s death really was an accident?’

  ‘I’ve thought of that, Rae. As I said, I’m keeping all options open. Maybe you could concentrate on that aspect. Find the post-mortem details if you can, and the coroner’s report.’ She turned to the rest of the team. ‘If anyone finds anything interesting, let me know i
mmediately. No delay. It must come straight to me. Is that understood?’

  The group returned to work and a hush descended on the room. Barry Marsh was building up a picture of Li Hua’s life. The picture of her that began to emerge was that of a dedicated mother, focused on her work and bringing up her twins. She had often referred to them as her "Camberwell Beauties," shockingly apt in the light of their burial place under a butterfly bush. Li Hua had been born and raised in Hong Kong and had gone to the local university. She met Richard there while they were both practising at a local clinic. They married and left for the UK several years before Hong Kong was ceded to China. Barry could find no connection with Bristol that would explain why they settled there. Rae was now researching his background.

  Li Hua had come from a large family, so it shouldn’t be difficult to find someone willing to give a DNA sample. He spent the rest of the day on the phone, attempting to make arrangements with the Hong Kong police.

  Rae managed to track down the findings of the original investigation into Richard’s death, along with the coroner’s report. The house where the accident occurred was a tall, terraced property with steep stairways. It appeared that Richard had tripped on some children’s toys left on the top step and had tumbled heavily to the bottom. His fatal head injuries were attributed to striking a protruding wooden window sill at the bottom of the stairs. This was sketched, and also shown in a photo attached to the report. The sill showed bloodstains where his head had struck it, and the wound was consistent with a collision of that nature. Richard had been alone in the house at the time. His wife, the second Mrs Camberwell, had returned from shopping with the children to find the body at the bottom of the stairs. There were no suspicious circumstances surrounding the death, according to the report. It had been accepted by the police, the pathologist and the coroner as nothing more than a tragic accident.

  Rae looked again at the photos of the window ledge and the head wound. It was entirely possible that his head had struck the ledge after tumbling down the stairs, but didn’t bodies tend to flatten out as they fell down a long set of steps, such that they slid down the last section? Could Doctor Camberwell’s head still have been high enough off the level of the carpet to have struck the sill, a good two feet above the bottom stair? She took the file to Sophie.

  ‘The problem is, ma’am, that no one doubted that it was an accident, in all these reports. His wife’s whereabouts that afternoon were checked and there were witness statements from shop staff and neighbours, but I think there was enough leeway in the estimated time of death for some doubt to creep in. They’ve used the fact that his watch was damaged in the fall and stopped working to be the corroborating evidence for time of death. But what if had been deliberately altered then smashed separately? It’s all too late now to do any checking of the scene. All we have is the records in front of us.’

  Sophie nodded. ‘We can bear it in mind. We need to find out much more about this second wife of his. Get onto it now, Rae. You’re good at going through records and spotting things. We need to know what her name was before she married Richard, and where she is now. Do we have a first name yet?’

  Rae nodded. ‘Pauline. And that name matches the initial we have on our list of residents for Finch Cottage, a P Camberwell.’

  ‘Good. We ought to get these photos of the head wounds checked by an expert. I’ll ask Benny Goodall to recommend someone.’

  Chapter 21: Meticulously Pressed Trousers

  Wednesday afternoon, week 2

  Jill Freeman glanced at her watch for the seventh time in as many minutes. She felt nervous and tense, almost terrified, but remained in the hotel bar, sipping her gin and tonic. Where had her lover got to? The text message had been terse, merely stating a location (this hotel) and a time (fifteen minutes ago). Should she be doing this? Why was she doing this? What were her motives? She considered these questions for what seemed like the twentieth time that day. She came to the same conclusion. Yes, she should. She so desperately needed to. Anyway, who gives a tinker’s cuss about motives when the emotions are as powerful as these? Her longing was so intense that it overran all reason. Jill was nothing but a quivering mass of desire. All other pressures were wiped away. In fact the extra pressures were part of the problem. After the discovery of those tiny, tragic bodies buried under the butterfly bush in her garden, it all became too much for her to cope with. She desperately needed to escape, if only for an hour or two.

  Jill took another sip and glanced up in time to see the object of her lust coming through the door from reception, dressed in black, walking calmly and in control towards the bar, ordering two large gin and tonics, exchanging a quiet, relaxed few words with the barman, and finally turning towards her. Oh, that confident, reassuring smile. Jill felt her heart lurch.

  ‘I’ve already picked up the key to the room,’ she said, nervous.

  ‘In that case I won’t bother sitting down,’ came the calm, assured reply as those long, sensitive fingers stroked out an errant fold in the fabric of the meticulously pressed black trousers. ‘Shall we just go up? I want to get your clothes off with as little delay as possible so that I can worship that beautiful body of yours. It’s been a tense and busy couple of days, and then to cap it all my train ran late.’

  Jill rose from her chair, holding out her hand, and took the proffered arm. ‘For me too. But I’m fine now you’re here.’

  * * *

  It was nearly five in the afternoon when Jill Freeman, still slightly flushed, turned the key in her front door and let herself in.

  ‘Anyone in?’ she called. There was no answer. She’d chosen today for that very reason: both children would be in late. Karen was playing in an away match for her school hockey team and Paul would be at the after-school chess club. Neither would be back before five thirty. Jill had worked late on both of the preceding two days in order to gain the free afternoon. She went to the kitchen to make a pot of tea, then up to her bedroom where she changed into jeans and a loose blouse. She’d already showered at the hotel to wash off the smell of sex, so she dumped her bra and panties into the wash basket and returned to the kitchen to pour her tea. When Paul arrived home, excited from his first victory in the school chess challenge, she was sitting on the couch, feet tucked under her, sipping Earl Grey and apparently calm. Inside, her brain was still performing cartwheels.

  ‘Have a biscuit and a glass of milk, Paul,’ she called. ‘Dinner won’t be ready before six thirty, so you can probably get most of your homework done before we eat. Okay, sweetheart?’

  She finished her tea, made her way through to the kitchen and started on a batch of ironing. Inside, she was still singing the Hallelujah Chorus, the music that had entered her head earlier that afternoon as she’d climaxed for the second time in an hour.

  * * *

  Dorothy Kitson telephoned Tony Younger, the church minister, telling him that she would be away for several weeks because a close family member was seriously ill. Would he be able to arrange a substitute cleaner? She then called the Arts Centre with the same message. She drew deeply on her cigarette, her fingers trembling. Maybe she’d keep on a couple of her household cleaning jobs. Those people wouldn’t know much, after all. But that detective woman worried her, she and her nuisance daughter, always popping up in odd places and looking at her, trying to talk to her. That just wasn’t fair. What had she ever done to deserve that kind of nosey intrusion? Nothing. She’d done nothing. It frightened her, especially after she’d seen the policewoman at the church on Friday morning. She hadn’t expected that. She’d heard them talking, as if they already knew each other. Why? Was there something that she, Dorothy, didn’t know? Had something happened involving the vicar? Had he called the police in? Why would he do that? What had the police found out? And most of all, what was her sister up to?

  Her hand was still shaking. She poured herself a large glass of scotch and added some lemonade. She blew her nose noisily and lit another cigarette.

  * * *
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  It was now seven forty-five. John Wethergill sat alone at his table in Dorchester’s best Italian restaurant, disappointed and rather self-conscious. It would be obvious to the other diners, particularly the young couple at the next table that he was waiting for someone. He was sitting at a table for two and had not yet ordered any food. He was wearing a neat, well-pressed shirt and contrasting tie, and checked his watch frequently. She was fifteen minutes late, and this was a first date —outside his flat, that is. Did that night of passion count as a date? He sighed and idly pushed his small glass of beer around on the table, then started to play with his napkin. How much longer should he wait, and why hadn’t she sent him a message? He looked up, and there she was, walking towards him with that seductive smile on her face. She slid out of her coat and sat down. She was wearing a shift dress in a delicate pink. She looked stunning. His throat became dry.

  ‘Sorry I’m late. I’ve had one heck of a busy day. I’ve had a couple of days in London on Arts Council business, and this morning’s session went over time. I rushed to get to my Waterloo train, and then it ran late. At least I managed to get a couple of hours’ exercise this afternoon and a short nap. I was so tired after all the endless meetings. But here I am. You look shocked. Your mouth’s open.’

  John closed his mouth, then opened it again. ‘Yes. I mean, no. Don’t worry. It’s not a problem. Was it an interesting couple of days though?’

  Pauline gave him one of her disarming smiles. ‘Yes, in a way. I had a charming evening out yesterday with a young woman from Dorset who is at Drama College in London. She was picking my brains about acting and then she told me all about her FGM campaign. We got a bit tipsy together.’ She caught the attention of a passing waitress. ‘Shall we order?’