A Confusion
of Murders
by
Marina Johnson
Copyright © Marina Johnson 2017
All Rights Reserved
All characters, locations and situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover artwork: Jan H Andersen/Shutterstock
Design: © A Mayes
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Chapter 1
If anyone had told me three years ago that I’d be working as a finance clerk in a scruffy newspaper office I would have laughed – although probably not as much as my old colleagues at the shiny corporate company where I used to work. The Frogham Herald started off as just one more in a long line of temporary jobs but there was something about the place that I liked and a year later, I’m still here.
There are only five of us at the Herald plus two printers who run the press. The Herald looks quite impressive from the front; all grand stone columns and heavy oak doors, but it’s all for show, the doors don’t even open. The real entrance is round the back through the scruffy car park, past the bins and in through a scuffed and chipped doorway and up the stairs.
Full to bursting with dusty grey filing cabinets, hundreds of box files and probably a million spiders, the inside is definitely not for show. My desk is the tidiest in the office and the only one that has a window, which now, clean of murk, has a view of the shopping precinct.
So, here I am, ten to nine, seated and ready for work.
Rupert, our not so roving reporter, his considerable bulk wedged into his swivel chair, is attempting to put his feet up on the desk while balancing a bacon sandwich and a mug of coffee. He can’t quite manage it so crosses one porky leg over the other still managing to hold onto his breakfast.
‘Any exciting plans for today Rupert?’
‘No, not really.’ He shoves the other half of his bacon sandwich into his mouth. ‘Need to have a word with Ralph about the missing woman story.’
He looks in the direction of the Editor’s closed office door. Ralph gets in at seven thirty but we all know better than to disturb him before nine o’clock. Smoke drifts into the office from under Ralph’s door, he needs at least three cigarettes before he’s worth speaking to. No smoking ban for him, he owns the paper as well as being editor so can pretty much do as he likes.
Lucy and Ian arrive by the skin of their teeth at two minutes to nine ready to take their seats before Ralph emerges. At nine on the dot Ralph’s door is flung open and he appears in a blast of cigarette smoke.
‘Morning, morning, morning,’ he says, rubbing his hands together briskly; he’s lost without a cigarette in his hand.
‘Morning,’ we all chorus.
Rupert unwedges himself from his chair and gets up and hands Ralph a sheet of paper, ‘This is for tonight’s edition, what do you think? Nothing new to write but it’s going to be on Crimewatch so we want people to watch it, maybe it’ll jog someone’s memory.’
Ralph squints at the paper and starts to read,
. . . Suzanne Jenkins, 45, has now been missing for two weeks. The last sighting of her was at 5pm on 28th April when she left work for the day. Her friends and family say that Ms Jenkins does not have a boyfriend and it is out of character for her to not contact her family. Tonight’s ‘Crimewatch’ is going to stage a reconstruction and if anyone has any information please contact the Frogham police on . . .
‘Yeah, that’ll do, Rupe. Not much more you can say, really. She’s probably dead anyway.’ He gives the paper back to Rupert.
‘Christ.’ Ian looks up from his desk. ‘Talk about look on the dark side, she’s only been missing for two weeks’.
‘Na, she’s dead,’ says Ralph confidently. ‘Why would she disappear for two weeks? Where would she go – a woman her age? You don’t vanish with the clothes you’re standing up in and turn up alive’.
I look at the picture of Suzanne Jenkins on my PC, a pretty blond raising a glass of wine to the camera; I have a nagging feeling that I’ve seen her before. She’s the same age as me but I don’t think I know her, yet there’s something familiar about her. Probably seen her in Asda.
A missing woman is big news for Frogham; nothing much ever happens here. A scrubby patchwork of red brick Victorian terraces, a few streets of posh thirties villas and several estates of sixties square boxes; that pretty much sums up Frogham. Apparently, we have one of the lowest crime rates in the country and it’s one of the safest places to live. If the worst has happened to Suzanne Jenkins that’ll screw the statistics.
‘Let’s hope Crimewatch turns something up, though I’m not hopeful,’ Ralph goes on. ‘Bit sad really, woman of her age. On her own, no husband, no kids, no-one to miss her.’
We’re interrupted by the bang of the office door as it’s flung open and hits the wall. Lev from the print room appears in the doorway, stomps over to my desk and slaps a sheet of paper down on the desk.
‘Is bill, for fix press,’ he says, then turns to Ralph. ‘Is my neighbour.’
Ralph looks at him blankly.
‘My neighbour missing woman. My neighbour.’ He points to his chest to make sure we understand.
‘Really?’ Ralph is shocked, how could he not have known this?
‘Yes, she live in up flat.’ He points to the ceiling.
Ralph pulls out a chair. ‘Sit down, Lev, sit down.’ He waves an arm at the seat, the unmistakable scent of a scoop in his nostrils, right here in his own office. Lev lowers himself hesitantly into the seat looking at Ralph suspiciously.
‘So.’ Ralph claps Lev on the back. ‘You say she lives in the flat above you?’
‘Is right.’
‘How long has she lived there?’
‘Politzi say five years but I not know she live there until they question me.
‘So, you didn’t know her then?’
‘No. Not met her but is very sad.’ Lev affects a mournful expression.
‘You must have seen her about though?’
‘No.’
‘What, never?’
‘No. Dagmar not like me look at other woman. She jealous.’
‘Oh. Does Dagmar know her?’
‘Not really.’
‘What d’you mean, not really?’
‘She know her but Dagmar no like her, Dagmar say she look like trollop.’
‘Trollop? That’s not very nice, Lev.’
‘I know.’ Lev shakes his head. ‘Yellow hair and lipstick say trollop to Dagmar, she proper wife.’
‘Oh, alright.’ Ralph gives Lev one of his looks. ‘Let’s just hope they catch him and lock him up and throw away the key. Trollop or not.’
‘In my country is more simples. We torture him, he confess, we shoot him. Job done, as you say.’ Lev shakes his head in disbelief. ‘You English, very strange. Prison like holiday camp, colour television. Life of Murphy, as you say.’
‘Riley.’ says Ralph.
Lev gives Ralph a puzzled look.
‘Anyway Lev.’ Ralph practically pulls Lev out of the chair. ‘Much as I’d like to chat all day I’ve got work to do.’ He puts his hand
on Lev’s back and gives him a little shove and Lev takes the hint and stomps across the office and back downstairs to the print room.
I’m not really sure where Lev comes from but I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t like to live there. I find him a bit intimidating, all swarthy, dark and brooding, but not in a Poldark way. I’m quite relieved he’s gone to be honest.
‘Bit unfair, calling her a trollop.’ Lucy’s indignant. ‘If dying your hair and wearing lipstick means you’re a trollop then so am I.’
‘Take no notice, Lucy, if you’d seen Dagmar you’d understand.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, let’s just say,’ Ralph goes on, ‘that a Russian shot putter and Dagmar have a lot in common. Can someone get that?’
Ralph’s phone is ringing from his office. Everyone pretends not to hear it even though it rings and rings.
‘I’ll get that shall I?’ I say sarcastically as I press 0 and pick up the receiver.
‘Good morning. Frogham Herald.’
The voice is so faint I can’t hear what they’re saying, ‘Good morning, Frogham Herald.’ I say a bit louder.
‘Hello, is that the newspaper?’ The voice is barely more than a whisper.
‘Yes, it’s the Frogham Herald, how can I help?’For God’s sake get on with it.
‘I know who took her. I know who took that woman.’
‘You know who took Suzanne Jenkins?’ I urge.
Everyone turns to me open mouthed as I listen to the caller; you could hear a pin drop. I listen carefully but the call is brief and after I’ve put the receiver down I look up to see four pairs of eyes fixed on me. I’m immediately bombarded with questions which I stop by putting my hand up.
‘Don’t speak to me, I need to write it down.’
I scribble in my notebook as fast I can before I forget what she said. It doesn’t take too long and when I’ve finished I read through it again to make sure I haven’t missed anything.
‘Okay, all done now.’ I say.
‘So, come on, spill,’ says Ralph impatiently.
I spill. For once Ralph and Ian are in agreement that it’s obviously a nutcase. I can tell that Ralph is annoyed that he didn’t take the call himself. The fact that the caller has a Scottish accent seems to clinch it.
‘Why would they have a Scottish accent?’ says Ralph. ‘This is Frogham.’ When I point out that Ralph himself comes from London Ian butts in and asks if I’m sure they were Scottish and not Irish.
‘I can tell the difference between an Irish and a Scottish accent.’ I say witheringly. ‘And perhaps if one of you answered the phone now and then you would have spoken to her yourself.’
I’ve had enough of talking about it now and also the assumption that if they’d answered the phone instead of me they’d have got a lot more information out of her. That’ll teach them – perhaps one of them will pick the phone up in future instead of me.
To shut them all up I telephone the police station to report it. I’m sure I’m wasting their time but I can hardly ignore it. I’m put through to the incident team and read the conversation out to them and after I’ve finished speaking I’m abruptly put on hold. I sit there tapping my fingers for what seems like forever. I’m taken off hold and a different voice informs me that a police officer will be out to visit me within the next hour. I’m really surprised that they’re taking this so seriously and feel a twinge of guilt when they tell me not to discuss it with anyone. I’ve assured them that I won’t even though we’ve done nothing but talk about it for the last hour.
‘Right,’ I announce, putting down the phone. ‘The police are on the way and you have to pretend I haven’t told you anything so that I don’t look like a complete blabbermouth’.
Excitement over, everyone returns to their desks and Ralph slopes off to his office for a smoke before the police arrive. I just wish the police would hurry up and get here and get it over with.
I’m feeling guilty and I haven’t even done anything.
And I’m feeling anxious.
Very anxious.
The police have arrived – a twelve-year-old detective constable and an older man who introduces himself as Detective Inspector Peters. He’s not very policeman like – late 40s, quite tall, with the look of a slightly podgy, greying, Bryan Ferry about him. I feel my face flushing beetroot red because I’ve met Detective Inspector Peters before, although he doesn’t acknowledge that fact to me, or I to him. I’m grateful that he doesn’t remember me, or if he does that he pretends not to. I’ve changed my name since then and I look quite a bit different so I’m hoping that he doesn’t remember. He showed me kindness when I probably didn’t deserve it and everyone else treated me like a leper.
The three of us go into the kitchen away from the flapping ears of Ralph, Rupert, Ian and Lucy. Ian attempts to follow us through the door muttering something about coffee and tea but I just ignore him and shut the door gently, but firmly, in his face, his nose practically squashed against the glass in the door.
I’d tidied up a bit before they got here –wiped the crumbs off the table and opened the window as there was an odd smell as if something had gone off in the fridge. It’s not much of a kitchen, a battered stainless-steel sink and stained worktop with a rusting fridge underneath. They both refuse my offer of a drink which is a relief as I’d be hard pushed to find two cups without chips or disgusting brown stains. We sit down around the table and after the formalities of names we get down to business. My face feels as it’s returning to a normal colour.
‘So, Ms Russell, can you tell me exactly what she said?’
I pass him the sheet I’ve typed up. ‘I’ve written it down almost verbatim, as best I can remember.’
‘Ah good.’ He nods approvingly, them reads through it slowly before passing it to the twelve-year-old.
Me: Good morning. Frogham Herald
Me: Good morning. Frogham Herald
Caller: Hello, is that the newspaper?
Me: Yes, it’s the Frogham Herald, how can I help?
Caller: I know who took her. I know who took that woman,
Me: Can you give me your name?
Caller: I can’t.
Silence
Caller: I found her bracelet.
Me: Whose bracelet?
Caller: The missing woman’s. It has her name on it. Turquoise
beads spelling out her name. He doesn’t know I found it.
Me: Who is he? Can you tell me his name?
Caller: I have to go, he’s coming... she hangs up.
‘How would you say she sounded? Old? Young? nervous?’
‘Not a young girl, definitely a woman – and she had a Scottish accent.’
‘You’re sure she was Scottish? The telephone can be quite distorting.’
‘It was definitely a Scottish accent but I don’t think she was Scottish.’
‘What do you mean? I thought you said she was Scottish?’
‘No, she had a Scottish accent but I don’t think she was Scottish. I have a good ear for accents, I think she was trying to disguise her voice. And she sounded frightened.’
‘How did she sound frightened?’
‘The way she spoke – she was whispering, as if she was afraid someone would hear her, and her voice was a bit wobbly.’
Everything I say is analysed, every detail noted. I can’t believe we can talk in such detail about such a brief conversation. He tells me that they have received hundreds of telephone calls and none of them have mentioned the bracelet. This is one of the facts that hasn’t been made public, Suzanne Jenkins always wore a beaded name bracelet that her parents had given her for her birthday.
‘It could be someone who knows her and knows she has the bracelet and is just ringing up wasting our time,’ says Detective Inspector Peters.
‘Would someone really do that? Are people really that horrible?’ I can hardly believe it.
‘I’m afraid they are,’ he says with a sigh. ‘There really is no limit to how
horrible some people are.’
Does he mean me? Does he remember me? I can feel myself starting to blush again. I know I’m paranoid but that doesn’t stop my face being on fire. ‘This could be a breakthrough,’ he continues. ‘Or it could be nothing, could just be a timewaster. The big question is what to do next – do we get the newspaper to appeal to the woman to come forward or could that frighten her away or even put her in danger? Also, why did she ring the newspaper and not the incident line?’
He’s not asking me, he’s talking to himself. I sneak a glance at the twelve-year-old who’s surreptitiously flicking through his phone under the table.
‘Do you want to put that phone away, Simmons?’The Inspector says drily without even looking at him. The twelve-year-old blushes scarlet and quickly shoves the phone in his trouser pocket. The kitchen must be on fire with the heat from our two faces.
I’m unsure whether I can go or not as the Inspector seems to be in a world of his own. I’ve also seen Ian and Ralph through the glass in the door walking past several times so I know they’re desperate to find out what’s being said. I have a little smirk to myself, that’ll teach them to pick the phone up in future.
‘I think the first thing we need to do is set up a recorder on the phone line here, so if she does ring again we’ll have it on tape.’
I nod seriously to show I agree with him but really, I just want this meeting to end so I can go back to my desk and hide.
Before he remembers who I am.
‘Yes. I think that’s what we’ll do.’ He stands up then turns to me. ‘You’ve been very helpful Ms Russell and I’m afraid you’re going to have to bear with us for a while longer.’
I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say so I nod seriously again and follow him and Simmons out of the tea room.
The next three hours involve a lot of standing around while various police techie types arrive and do things with the telephones. For some reason it’s been decided that I will have the recorder on my phone which means I’ll be lumbered with all incoming calls. When the techies are satisfied that the voice activated recorder is working they finally leave.
A Confusion of Murders: There's murder on his mind... Page 1