BURIED ON THE FENS a gripping crime thriller full of twists

by Joy Ellis

  Nikki experienced a sudden wave of overwhelming sorrow. There were so many women like Madeline Prospero, who could never be as they wanted to. Being forced to live a lie every minute of every day was no life at all, was it?

  She slammed the car door and sighed. She looked at her eyes in the rear view mirror and knew what she would do. She would find Madeline’s killer, and she would keep her secret. She wasn’t sure how that could be achieved but whatever it took, she’d do it.

  She was about to start the car when her phone rang.

  ‘Sorry to call, Nikki. Are you anywhere near Churchgate Mews?’

  ‘I’m three roads away, Joseph. What’s the problem?’

  ‘Uniform had to make a forced entry to number twenty-two. Neighbours reported seeing daily papers sticking out of an old chap’s letter box and his curtains hadn’t been opened. Yvonne attended and found him in bed. She’s confirmed that life is extinct. At first she thought it was a natural death but now she thinks it could be suicide. She has asked if we could take a look.’

  ‘Has the doctor been called?’

  ‘Yes, Nikki, and the coroner’s officer was on site so he’s been notified too. Shall I meet you there?’

  ‘If you would, Joseph, and bring the relevant paperwork. I’m on my way.’

  * * *

  ‘Kept himself to himself, apparently. No visitors to speak of, and he rarely went out. His next door neighbour says he’s in his early seventies, but he looks much older. Yvonne is in with the neighbour now. She’s elderly and really upset, so Vonnie’s making her a cuppa.’

  ‘Pretty house proud, wasn’t he?’ Nikki ran a finger along the front of a shelf. ‘No dust.’

  ‘No dishes in the sink. No clothes drying anywhere.’ Joseph ran an envious eye around the place. ‘It’s even tidier than my cottage, and Tam is convinced I have OCD!’ Joseph opened the bedroom door. ‘He’s through here, Nikki. Yvonne thought he’d had a heart attack or something, until she saw those.’

  In a neat pile beside the bed were dozens of letters, photos and old newspaper clippings. Beside them, and partly obscured, were some torn foil blister packs, now empty.

  ‘Antidepressants, I think.’

  He lay in bed in his pyjamas. Nikki looked at his cadaverous face. The man certainly looked older than seventy — more like eighty, Nikki thought. His skin was deeply furrowed and leathery, as if he had spent his time outdoors. One arm lay stiffly on top of the bedspread. The joints of his finger were large and knotty with arthritis, but the nails were clean and neatly clipped. Nikki bent down towards the dead hand and sniffed. There was the unmistakable smell of bleach.

  ‘Do we know who he is?’

  ‘The neighbour only knows him as Fred, but most of these letters are addressed to Mr F. S. Cartwright. Yvonne didn’t touch anything else, but by the looks of it, I’m sure all his bills and papers will be as orderly as the rest of his home. He was renting, so I’ve radioed in for a check on his name. Poor old guy. Seems like loneliness and failing health got the better of him, doesn’t it?’

  Nikki looked around at the immaculate room and frowned. ‘Joseph, how many sudden deaths have you attended where the place looks like a TV advert for Flash?’

  Joseph raised his eyebrows. ‘None. Come to think of it, most of them are a right shambles.’

  ‘Mmm, they usually let themselves go before they give up altogether. This looks as though he was expecting royalty.’

  ‘Maybe he was, but they never turned up.’

  ‘Now there’s a point, Joseph.’

  Yvonne came into the room. ‘Ever see someone do themselves in, in such a spotless place, Vonnie?’ Nikki asked.

  Yvonne shook her head. ‘Uh uh. We are usually picking our way through empty baked bean cans, bottles and fag ends.’

  Nikki looked around. ‘We’d better make sure that this is Frederick Cartwright. Yvonne, bag up all those tablet containers and see if there are any boxes with the pharmacy labels on them. Joseph, check for his personal papers, pension details, driving license, and the like. It doesn’t look like anyone else has been in here, but I would like to know if he did kill himself intentionally, and if so, why?’

  ‘Ma’am?’ Yvonne was looking out of the window. ‘Doctor’s just pulling up.’

  ‘Good.’ Nikki said, and whispered, ‘Which one is it?’

  ‘Dr Weldon, by the look of it.’ Yvonne gave a wry smile. ‘Weedy Weldon himself.’

  ‘Oh great! My favourite.’

  With a gloved finger and obvious distaste, Dr Wallace Weldon touched the side of the dead man’s neck and agreed that life was indeed extinct. He hurried to the door. ‘Better get the paperwork done. I’ll go into the living room and sort it out.’

  ‘Sorry, Doctor. One moment. Would you consider this a natural death, an accidental one, or a suicide?’ Nikki’s eyes were slivers of ice.

  Dr Weldon raised his eyebrows. ‘Looks like a suicide, but we’ll have to wait for the post-mortem to be sure.’

  ‘And these? What would they have been prescribed for?’ Nikki held out the see-through evidence bag.

  He took it and turned the foil sheets towards the light. ‘Tofranil. That’s imipramine hydrochloride, a tricyclic antidepressant, often used with the elderly for depression.’

  ‘Is this man a patient of yours?’

  ‘No, I’ve never seen him before. He’s probably registered with the Fenside Surgery. It’s within walking distance of here.’

  ‘And how long — approximately of course — has he been dead?’

  The doctor brushed a liberal coating of dandruff from his suit collar and stared across the room at the dead man. ‘Probably over twelve hours. Rigor mortis is well advanced. As I said, the post-mortem will tell you all you want to know, Detective Inspector.’

  Nikki wished that Rory Wilkinson was here. Dr Weldon could hardly bring himself to touch the luckless Frederick Cartwright, let alone conduct anything approximating to a thorough and sympathetic examination.

  Looking relieved, the doctor mizzled off.

  ‘Nikki, I’ve confirmed that he is Frederick Silas Cartwright, a widower. He kept all his personal papers together in a small case in the bottom of his sideboard, including his photo ID bus pass.’

  ‘Okay, Joseph, we’ll take it all back with us, and see if we can find any relatives. Better call the undertaker, I suppose.’

  ‘Already done. When I saw Weldon’s car arrive, I knew the examination wouldn’t take long.’ Joseph rolled his eyes.

  ‘Then I don’t think that there is much more for us here. Get the doctor’s comments and signature for me. Yvonne? Would you stay here and see in the body-bag boys, then get back to base. I’ll see you there.’

  Nikki gave a curt nod to Wallace Weldon and a brief word of thanks. Tucked under her arm was the bag of photos, newspaper articles and letters. She had a distinctly uneasy feeling about the death of Mr Fred Cartwright. Not only was it the cleanest scene of death or suicide that she had ever seen, but the dead man himself intrigued her. Maybe his bedtime reading would clarify matters.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Several hours later, Nikki and Joseph stood in the CID room and stared at the big whiteboard that covered part of one wall. Along with names, times and other notes, was a copy of a studio portrait of Madeline Prospero, provided by her father. Beneath it were images provided by the police photographer. The pretty, petite, sandy-haired woman in the centre portrait was no longer recognisable. As Rory had said, the attack was frenzied.

  ‘We’ve seen a lot of terrible things, haven’t we, Joseph? But this takes vicious to a whole other level.’

  ‘Whoever killed Madeline was completely out of control.’ Joseph looked at the picture and shook his head. ‘It’s horrible.’

  Nikki looked at him. ‘Insanity? Rage? Fury?’

  ‘Could be drugs.’ His voice was soft. ‘I saw something like this once when I was serving abroad. A young squaddie got completely off his head on something. It took four of us to get h
im to the floor and he literally bit chunks of flesh out of one of the guys.’ Joseph shuddered. ‘I never want to see anything like that again.’

  ‘You could be right.’ With a sigh, Nikki walked back to her office, closely followed by Joseph.

  She sat down heavily and pointed to the other chair. ‘Do you know? For once, I have no idea where to start.’

  Joseph rubbed his chin. ‘I know what you mean. All the initial groundwork has been done. We’ve interviewed people, checked the CCTV footage of the area, and conducted background searches. We’ve spoken to friends, family and work colleagues, but still nothing. Now we know we were chasing a false lead with the boyfriends, but what else don’t we know about her?’

  ‘We’ll have to start looking at the Briar Patch women.’ Nikki nibbled on her bottom lip. ‘And that is going to be like poking a stick into a hornets’ nest. I don’t want any of us getting stung.’

  ‘When are you seeing Spooky again?’

  ‘Her interview for the post of coordinator of the new IT unit is on Friday. I’ll see her then.’

  ‘That’s only the day after tomorrow. Until then, let’s help Cat with the mystery man. I get the feeling you would like to take a swift look through the late Frederick Cartwright’s papers. You keep staring hungrily at that brown envelope on your desk.’ Joseph smiled.

  Nikki smiled back. ‘You know me so well. That squeaky clean flat was all wrong for a suicide.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘And did you see that posy of freesias in a little vase on the kitchen table? Why buy flowers when you were planning on going away forever?’

  Joseph stood up. ‘Well, I can’t answer that one. I think I’ll go and offer my services to Cat, and leave you to your musings on the strange passing of Mister Clean.’

  ‘Could you see if Yvonne is around, and tell her to come and see me?’

  Joseph nodded, and pulled the door to behind him.

  Nikki took out the collection of photos, letters and paper clippings and spread them over her desk. The pictures were very old, and most were family snaps. Small, faded photos taken with an old-fashioned camera. Many showed a middle-aged woman, although it was difficult to make out her true age, but the majority followed a young girl from babyhood to adolescence. Fred himself featured only in one, a wedding gathering, and she would not have known that but for the pencilled annotation: “Fred and Ellen at Cousin Billie’s wedding. March 1967.”

  ‘You want to see me, ma’am?’

  ‘Come in and grab a pew, Yvonne, and tell me what you’ve got on Cartwright.’

  Yvonne Collins sat down and stared at her notes. ‘Not a lot yet. He’s lived in that small bungalow for about six years. It seems that he was a real loner. His old neighbour says he was always polite, but he rarely spoke about anything other than his little garden and his dog.’

  ‘Dog? I didn’t see any signs of an animal living there.’

  ‘The neighbour is looking after it. Cracking little terrier, it is. She said that Fred asked her to have it for a couple of days, as he had something important to do and he didn’t want to neglect the dog.’

  ‘Sounds like he thought this through quite carefully, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Mmm, although the old dear says she can’t keep the dog permanently. It would be too much for her with her arthritis.’ Yvonne gave her a rueful smile. ‘I asked her if she would be kind enough to keep it for a few more days, if I paid for the food, to spare it going to the pound. You know what happens there. I thought I’d make a few enquiries about re-homing it.’

  Nikki nodded. ‘Fair enough. Did she tell you anything else?’

  ‘Well, those particular dwellings belong to a housing association that provides homes specifically for the elderly of Greenborough and its villages, which means he’s always lived in this area.’

  ‘What about a previous address?’

  ‘That’s a bit vague, ma’am. Seems he was staying with an unmarried sister while he waited to be housed. She died just before he was given number twenty-two. I contacted the housing people but they don’t seem to have kept any records on her, or where he came from originally.’

  ‘Helpful. What about his wife? I’ve got a photo of her here. Ellen Cartwright?’

  Yvonne thumbed through her notes. ‘Ellen Doris Cartwright, nee Deavers. Born in Hull, 1944. Married Frederick in St Mary the Virgin’s Church, West Salterby in 1962. She died of pneumonia in 1984.’

  ‘And children?’

  ‘An only child, a daughter called Millicent. She appears to have gone out to New Zealand in her late teens. So far I haven’t come up with anything else about her — no address, no details of whether she married, nothing.’

  ‘And this, I suppose, was Millicent?’ Nikki laid out the old photos and turned them towards Yvonne. ‘They seem to stop at about the age of ten or eleven. And these,’ she pushed across a small bundle of airmail letters, ‘were all returned from Christchurch, New Zealand, unopened, and marked not known at this address.’

  ‘Oh well, that gives me somewhere to start, doesn’t it? I mean, we have to try and locate her, to let her know that her father has died.’ Yvonne frowned.

  ‘I don’t think you will have to go chasing around the southern hemisphere, Yvonne. Think about it — it was something Joseph said, that he’d made the place look as if he was expecting royalty. So, who would you treat like royalty, if you were Fred’s age?’

  ‘A son or a daughter, or even a grandchild?’

  ‘Exactly. And he wanted to impress. He wanted them to see that he was coping, looking after himself, was in the pink in fact. But the prodigal never showed.’

  ‘And then he topped himself.’

  ‘Pound to a penny. The pictures, the letters, the tablets. We hardly need the post-mortem report to confirm it’s a suicide. And if Millicent were supposedly calling on Daddy, she’s not in New Zealand, she’s right here.’

  ‘Of course! Oh, and you mentioned the tablets, well he was with the Fenside Surgery. He had been prescribed the antidepressants about a year ago. Looks like he only took a few of them and stockpiled the rest.’ While Yvonne talked, she leafed idly through the scattered photographs. She paused and stared hard at the wedding group. She turned it over, read the words on the back and screwed up her face.

  ‘Fred and Ellen. Fred and Ellen Cartwright rings a bell, ma’am.’

  ‘With your encyclopaedic knowledge of the people round here, I’m not surprised. Any idea where from?’

  Yvonne continued to frown. ‘Way back, I think. I’ll have to spend some time on this. By the way, what was in the newspaper cuttings?’

  ‘Can’t make sense of them, Vonnie. He had kept mainly whole pages, so I can’t tell which articles he was interested in. There was nothing about any particular person, and no mention of a Millicent.’

  ‘Can I look at them?’

  ‘Sure. Take them with you, copy them, and when you’ve finished with them, seal them up with his private papers. They will be needed for the inquest.’

  Yvonne slipped the pages back into the envelope. ‘I’ll get on with trying to trace the daughter.’ She paused in the doorway. ‘I wonder why she didn’t show?’

  ‘I wonder why she emigrated in the first place, and then made no contact for almost twenty-five years.’

  Yvonne shrugged and left.

  * * *

  ‘Nothing?’ Cat asked, staring at the missing persons list and looking despondent.

  Joseph was stretching and yawning. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Same here.’ Cat yawned too. ‘Found one chap with a broken wrist, got all excited, then I realised he was only five-three, our chap was nearer five-ten. I’ve still got six or seven to go. How about you?’

  ‘Two or three, but I think I’m going to call it a day. I’ve got a load of stuff to run over to Jacob’s Mere. Tam and Niall will be home tomorrow and I promised to get some food in for them. Their flight gets in pretty late.’

  Cat held out her hand. ‘Pass them over, Sarge. I’m not doing anything
tonight, so I’ll keep phoning round.’

  ‘If it’s no trouble, Cat, I’d appreciate it. Mind you, I guess there is no hurry really. He’s been lying in that churchyard for long enough, so another few days won’t make much difference.’

  ‘I’m fine. I’ll finish this lot. It’s a good time to catch people in, and Dave hasn’t surfaced either. I’ll see how he’s doing with the archive newspaper reports. Get yourself off and sort out your newlyweds!’

  Joseph pulled on his jacket. ‘Thanks, Cat, it’s good of you.’ He stopped and turned to her. ‘Big day tomorrow, isn’t it?’

  ‘The new arrival?’

  ‘Ben’s a good detective. I’m sure he’ll fit in really well.’

  ‘He will.’ Cat beamed. ‘I’ll make damned sure he does!’

  ‘I’m sure you will. Now don’t work too late. This case doesn’t qualify for overtime rates, you know.’

  ‘Sarge! You know me! I do it all for love.’

  A few moments after Joseph left, Dave slumped at his desk and sighed loudly. ‘I’ve got square bloody eyes!’

  Cat laughed. ‘But have you got anything interesting?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know.’ He stared at the mountain of papers in front of him. ‘I’ve printed off reams of stuff with “H” in it, so I can read properly. That screen was doing my head in. Did Joseph have any luck?’

  ‘No, and we’re nearly through the local list. Looks as if he might not be a Greenborough man at all.’

  ‘Problem is, not every disappearance is reported as a missing person. And look at the amount of casual labour that comes into this county to work in the fields. Apart from the foreign immigrants, we have a massive number of seasonal workers.’

  ‘And it’s no good asking one of the gang masters for any names. Those people come and go all the time.’

  ‘Well, I’m throwing in the towel for tonight before I go completely cross-eyed. I’ll look through this in the morning.’ He ran a hand through his short grey hair. ‘I’m having what you girls call a “me night” tonight, and I don’t want to keep myself waiting.’