THE BEEKEEPER a gripping crime mystery with a dark twist

by Stewart Giles

  When this is all over, she thought, I’m going to take a holiday somewhere. Somewhere warm and far away.

  *

  The Unicorn was already busy at a quarter to seven. Groups of young people sat at tables laughing at the screens of mobile phones. Older patrons sat at the bar nursing pints of ale. Taylor found the team from Exeter at the table furthest from the bar. DS Southern wasn’t there yet.

  “Take a seat,” DCI James said. “Brown’s buying. What do you want to drink?”

  “Tonic water, please.”

  “Are you pulling my leg?”

  “No. I don’t drink.”

  “You call yourself a detective?” James patted DC Brown on the shoulder.

  “You heard the lady,” he said to the pig-faced DC, “she’ll have a tonic water. And I’ll have another pint.”

  Brown shuffled off towards the crowded bar. DS Southern arrived and sat down next to James. He was wearing far too much aftershave and had a small plaster on his chin where he had obviously cut himself shaving.

  “Right,” James said when Brown had returned with the drinks, “let’s get started. Jane?”

  “We’ve come up with something. I think it’s worth checking out.”

  “Good. That’s what I like to hear. Go on.”

  “Dennis Albarn. What if he killed Stanley Green in a fit of rage? And Milly Lancaster happened to witness the attack so he killed her to shut her up.”

  “Mmm. And then you think Albarn topped himself out of remorse for what he’d done?”

  “Exactly. What do you think?”

  “It’s a bit far-fetched but I’ve seen real situations that were more bizarre. What made you come up with this?”

  “The gas. I think he meant to kill himself by sticking his head in the oven, but the lightning had other ideas.”

  “Alice Green had a phone call on Wednesday evening too,” Taylor added. “The night of the explosion. She thinks it was Albarn who phoned her. First she thought it was her husband, but he was already dead by then. We’ll need your go ahead to contact Albarn’s service provider to check.”

  “Good.” James finished half the beer in his glass in one go and belched. “Excuse me. Phil, what did you and White find out from knocking on doors?”

  “Not much. Nothing suspicious sprang out.”

  “Then we’ll go with Carrick’s theory for the time being. I’ll need forensics to go over everything again, taking into account the new info we have. What’s the grub like in this place?” He looked at Taylor.

  “I’ve never eaten here. I very rarely go out.”

  “Young lass like you? What a waste. I’m starving and Trotterdown is paying. What’s everyone having?”

  They all settled for fish and chips. James sent Brown back to the bar to place the order.

  “What’s the plan, boss?” Carrick asked him.

  “I eat my fish and chips and then I down as many pints as my stomach can handle.” He drained his glass to demonstrate. “You mean the plan for tomorrow? We shake things up a bit. I, for one, would love Albarn to be our man. Done, dusted and he’s copped it to boot. We need some hard evidence to back it up. Fingerprints on Milly Lancaster’s car. A weapon in Albarn’s house with Stanley Green’s blood all over it.”

  “Albarn spent time inside,” Taylor said. “His fingerprints will be on file.”

  “Good. Tomorrow, we’re going to put a firecracker so far up the forensics guys’ arses, they’re going to be walking bow-legged for weeks.”

  “Littlemore’s going to love that.”

  Their fish and chips arrived and they all focused on the food. DC Brown finished first. He ate like he hadn’t seen food in weeks. Taylor barely touched hers. Something was bothering her. There were still holes in the story, and here they were, celebrating as if they’d closed the investigation. Taylor wondered what DI Killian would make of it all.

  He’s probably in the hospital, she thought, at his wife’s bedside, while we’re out enjoying ourselves. It wasn’t right.

  “Right then,” James pushed his empty plate to the middle of the table, “this is what’s going to happen tomorrow. We’ll drag out Albarn’s phone records. See if he phoned Alice Green before he went and topped himself.”

  “Maybe he phoned her to confess,” Southern suggested, “to clear his conscience before he died.”

  “But why pretend to be Alice’s husband?” Taylor asked.

  “We don’t know,” said James. “No doubt we’ll find out and if we don’t, too bad. Let’s confirm that he actually did phone her and then we’ll let forensics do their thing. I’m personally going to be on their backs the whole time. If everything goes to plan, by Monday, it’ll be case closed. Polgarrow will be able to sleep easy, and I’ll go back to Exeter.”

  He punched the air and Taylor cringed. She hoped her feelings weren’t too obvious, but she couldn’t help it. She had a sudden urge to get out of there as quickly as possible.

  “Would it be all right if I went home? I’m exhausted. I really need to catch up on some sleep.”

  “And miss out on the party?” James said. “You’ll stay right here. We’re only just getting started.”

  “Harriet’s right.” Carrick came to her rescue. “We have a lot to get through tomorrow and we all need to be up bright and early with fresh heads.”

  “On you go, then,” James said, “don’t let me stop you. I’m going to stick around for a bit though. I like this place.”

  “Thank you.” She didn’t want to give him a chance to change his mind. “I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Taylor felt a lot better once she got home. She had just needed to get away from the Unicorn. DCI James’ voice had given her a headache. The more he drank, the worse he got. She was regretting agreeing to join the team from Exeter, not least because she was faced with a no-win situation. If DI Carrick’s theory turned out to be right and they managed to crack the case in less than two days, the Trotterdown police would appear incompetent. Taylor’s life would be extremely unpleasant for weeks, if not months afterwards. On the other hand, if they found nothing to link Dennis Albarn to the murders and the investigation dragged on, everybody would think she’d jumped onto the wrong ship. She’d be the station laughing-stock.

  The best case scenario would be if she worked it out on her own. And there was pretty well no chance of that.

  Something had changed in her house. She couldn’t put her finger on it — just a sense that something was different. She shrugged it off and made herself some cheese on toast. Her appetite had returned, now she’d left the pub. The jar of honey was still on the kitchen table. She put it in the cupboard. She’d never dared tell Alice, but she hated honey.

  Poor Alice, she’s been through so much heartache in her life. Imagine being married to a man who disappeared for years on end. Danny’s accident had spared her that at least.

  She took her plate through to the living room. The cushions on the sofa were arranged differently. She put them back the way they had been and sat down.

  Let’s go back to the beginning, she thought.

  DI Carrick’s theory was convenient but Taylor’s gut told her they were focusing all their efforts on the easiest solution for the investigation. She found a piece of paper and a pen and started to write:

  Stanley Green, found on Wednesday 17 June in the nets of a fishing boat. Dead for almost a week. Date of death therefore around 10 or 11 June. Dennis Albarn claims he saw Green in Trotterdown on Wednesday 10 June and they agreed to meet that Friday.

  Albarn might have been the last person to see Stanley Green alive. That tied in with Carrick’s theory. Albarn could have met Green, killed him and lied about meeting him in Trotterdown that Friday.

  Why chop him in half and dump him in the sea almost a week after killing him?

  Milly Lancaster, last seen Friday 12 June. She didn’t show up for market on the Saturday and her car was found at the bottom of Merryhead on Sunday 14 Jun
e.

  Maybe Albarn forced her to drive up there and pushed the car off the cliff. Albarn was reasonably fit so the walk back to Polgarrow would have been no problem for him.

  She looked back over her notes. On paper, everything supported Carrick’s theory but surely it couldn’t be that simple?

  Dennis Albarn, she wrote and underlined the name. She wondered what had been going on is his head.

  Killed in an explosion Wednesday 17 June. The gas was left on and the lightning caused a spark that blew up the whole house. Stanley Green’s body was found on the same day.

  What were the chances of that happening? One in a million? So … Dennis Albarn didn’t expect the body to ever be found, panicked and saw only one way out?

  Taylor gave in. DI Carrick must be right and they had found their murderer. She finished her cheese on toast and started getting ready for bed. She flipped her pillbox open and frowned. She was sure there had been more tablets in there. Maybe the new pharmacist had given her fewer tablets than usual. She swallowed two of the blue capsules, climbed into bed and waited for the dreamless nothingness to take over.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  The longest day of the year brought with it such an influx of tourists to the area around Trotterdown that the roads were already gridlocked when Taylor set off at six-thirty. She’d never experienced anything like it before. Summer in Edinburgh had been busy, but nothing like this. It was starting to get horribly hot and sticky inside her car, and when she wound down the windows, the air outside was not much cooler. The car in front moved forwards slightly, only to grind to a halt after a few seconds. She turned off the engine, afraid it would overheat.

  This is all I need. I’m going to be late. She took out her phone and dialled the station switchboard. PC Eric White answered immediately.

  “Eric, it’s DC Taylor. I’m stuck in the worst traffic jam I’ve ever seen.”

  “Welcome to Cornwall. It’s the solstice. Everybody wants to be in the West Country for the solstice. You don’t want to be at Stonehenge today. I heard they’ve already had four accidents around there.”

  “I’m supposed to be at a meeting at seven and I’m going to be late. Could you do me a favour and let DCI James know?”

  “OK,” White said cheerfully and rang off. The traffic in front of her slowly started to move.

  She turned the engine on and eased forward. Her speedometer told her she was travelling at five miles per hour. The clock on the dashboard read seven already. She turned on the radio and tuned it to the local station. A droning voice was telling people to stay off the roads because a heatwave was on the cards and a record number of visitors were expected. The longest day of the year really was going to be a long one for DC Harriet Taylor.

  *

  She got to the station just before eight. She was already exhausted and the day had barely started. She made her way to Killian’s office, knocked on the door and went inside. DCI James’ expression indicated he was not impressed.

  “Sorry I’m late. The traffic from my house was a nightmare,” she said.

  “It’s the twenty-first. The longest day. You should have made allowances. Everybody else managed to get here on time.”

  “I didn’t realise the roads would be that bad.”

  “A phone call would’ve done.” James sounded as if he were telling off a small child.

  “I did phone. I phoned the switchboard. I asked PC Eric White to let you know.”

  “Then it must have slipped his mind. Anyway, now you’ve deigned to join us, we might as well get cracking.”

  Taylor sat down next to DS Southern. Eric had wanted to get her in trouble. She’d have a word or two with him before the day was through.

  “You haven’t missed much,” James said, “fortunately for you. We’re all still inclined to agree with Carrick’s theory. It’s the only way forward, as we stand.”

  “I agree. I went through it again last night. The sequence of events points to Dennis Albarn. The timescale fits.”

  “Then let’s see if we can prove it.” James sat back with his hands clasped behind his head. “A dead man can’t be tried, but we still need some concrete evidence if we’re going to make this wash with the general public.”

  “And the press,” DC Phil Brown added. His piggy eyes were even more sunk into the sockets and his chubby face was blotchy.

  “Phil,” James said to him, “since you’re looking the shittiest out of all of us, you can take the easiest job. Get hold of Albarn’s service provider and get a log of all the calls made and received in the past week. You really ought to know your limits with the drink. Jane, you come with me. Let’s see if this Littlemore bloke is as good as he’s supposed to be.”

  “What about us?” Southern asked.

  “I want you and Harriet to search through what’s left of Albarn’s house. I believe the fire department’s said it’s safe to enter. You might want to think about a change of clothes.”

  Great, Taylor thought, I’m being punished for being late. Eric White is going to pay dearly for this.

  *

  The traffic on the roads had eased off slightly as Taylor and DS Southern made their way towards Polgarrow. It was still oppressively hot, though, and Taylor knew it was only going to get worse. She was sweating in the old tracksuit she’d found in the lost property room. Southern had decided to risk it and was still wearing his own clothes.

  “He likes you,” he said, “DCI James. He definitely likes you.”

  “It doesn’t feel like it. How come he’s making us dredge through what’s left of the house? Surely he could have got a couple of rookie uniform guys to do it?”

  “They wouldn’t know what they were looking for and they wouldn’t know what to do with it, even if they did find something.”

  “What exactly are we looking for? I thought everything in the house was destroyed.”

  “Most of it was. I read the initial forensics report but they may have overlooked something. It happens all the time. Besides, Albarn wasn’t a suspect at the time.”

  “This feels odd. Investigating the murders of two people in a house where our main suspect died. It doesn’t seem right, somehow.”

  “If he did do it, we need to know, and if he didn’t, we still need to know.”

  “Wise words, but I have a feeling it’s not going to be that easy.”

  “How long have you been in CID?” Southern asked.

  “Since January. I came here from Edinburgh.”

  “Then you must have had your reasons.” He stopped the car outside of what was left of Dennis Albarn’s house.

  “It still stinks,” Taylor said as they approached the burned-out shell.

  “I expect they’ll have to knock it down and start again. Wooden houses are all very well and nice to look at, but I wouldn’t fancy the maintenance. And look what happens in a fire.”

  “Where do we start?”

  “The front door is always a good place.” Southern got out a pair of rubber gloves and Taylor did the same. “At least where the front door used to be.”

  They explored the house, broken glass crunching underfoot. Everything was black and charred and most of it was unidentifiable. Taylor was glad she had put on the old tracksuit. It was filthy in seconds. She wished she had changed her shoes as well.

  “The things we do in the line of duty, eh?” Southern smiled at her. His perfect teeth looked even whiter against the layer of soot that had formed on his face.

  *

  “There’s not much left,” Taylor said after half an hour of searching. “This has been a waste of time.”

  “Let’s check the garden and then we can call it a day.” He wiped a bit of grit from his eye.

  Dennis Albarn’s back garden consisted of a long stretch of unkempt lawn with a table and two small chairs on a concrete slab at the bottom. A tiny tin shed stood next to the table and chairs. It appeared to have survived the explosion intact.

  “Albarn wasn’t much of a ga
rdener, that’s pretty clear,” Southern said. The shed was locked with a rusty iron padlock, which looked as if nobody had touched it in quite a while. “And how on earth are we going to get into that?”

  “Give me a moment.” Taylor went back into the house and came out with a piece of metal. She picked up a brick from a pile next to the garden wall. “It’s a spring from one of the burnt chairs,” she explained.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Don’t ask.” She banged the furniture spring with the brick until it straightened out a bit, put the sharp end in the keyhole of the lock and hit the other end as hard as she could with the brick. The lock sprang open with a click.

  “Scottish skeleton key.” She held up the metal.

  “I’ve seen everything now.” Southern shook his head.

  “I grew up in an interesting town. A lot of my friends were boys.” She took the lock off and pushed the shed door open.

  The smell hit the two detectives at the same time and both of them recoiled. A malty stench with a certain sweetness to it.

  “Home brew.” Southern pointed to the crates of empty beer bottles on the floor of the shed. Two large barrels stood next to them.

  “My dad used to make this stuff. I’ll never forget that smell. My mother hated it.”

  “There’s not much else in here,” Taylor said. She stepped inside. Apart from paraphernalia associated with home brewing — pots of yeast, bottles of sugar and various tubes and pipes — there was not much else inside the shed. There were no tools to indicate that Dennis Albarn had any interest in gardening.

  “This place is just a mini brewery,” Southern said.

  A sudden gust of wind blew in from a slit in the window opposite them and slammed the door shut. On the back of the shed door, supported by two rusty nails was a large green shovel. And this one obviously had been well-used. So well-used, in fact that the paint on the blade had been scraped off in places and the metal was dented. Its edge, though, looked sharp and nasty.