“Mrs Hunt, Beatrice, why do you stay? There are places you can go, you know.”
She laughed, clinging to the doorframe as if welded to it. “Where? Home to my wonderful mummy? She’s a stuck-up cow.”
“No, there are other places. Safe houses where you can stay until you get back on your feet again. Where your husband can’t hurt you.”
She shook her head. “Carl loves me. You, you don’t understand. ’Scuse me,” she said, turning and staggering down the hallway.
Within moments they heard the sound of her being violently sick.
“Should I go to her, sir?” Dave asked.
Paolo almost laughed out loud at the look on Dave’s face, pleading with him not to say yes. He shook his head.
“It’ll be better to let her be for a while. We’ve got time. Let’s sit and wait.”
Ten minutes later Beatrice reappeared in the doorway. She looked marginally better, but was still clearly unsteady on her feet.
“What do you want this time?” she said, enunciating the words so carefully she sounded as if she was reading a script.
“We’d like to have a chat with your sons, Mrs Hunt.”
Beatrice laughed. “You and me both. If you find…if you…’scuse me,” she murmured, rushing back to the bathroom.
She was only gone a few minutes this time. Paolo guessed there was little left to bring up.
“As I was saying, if you find them, tell them I…tell them…say I…oh, what’s the point! They don’t want anything to do with me.”
“When did you last see them?”
She sighed and stared at the ceiling, then shrugged her shoulders, almost losing her balance in the process. She put out a hand to steady herself.
“I don’t know. A year, maybe two years ago. Daniel was always so full of himself. He thought he was too good for us and took himself off to live with a friend. Carl set Mark up in business, but something went wrong. Both boys blamed Carl, but he explained it to me. He said Mark screwed up. Mark disappeared, I don’t know where, Daniel went off in a temper and I haven’t seen either of my sons since then.”
Paolo wanted to shake her, she sounded so pathetic and concerned only with her own feelings. How must her sons have felt, knowing she would always take her husband’s side over theirs?
She began to cry, but the tears were for her, not for her children.
“You don’t understand. I did my best. I just did my best. I want you to go now before Carl gets back. He’s a good man, but he doesn’t like it if I have anyone in here while he’s out. Please go.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Week four – Friday 15th August to Thursday 21st August
The pretender looked down at the leaflet he’d torn from the notice board outside the railway station a few months earlier. It was time to set up the next stage, but this was going to be trickier than the others. He had to convince Wittington-Smythe or find another way of getting close to him. Taking a deep breath, he called the number on the leaflet.
“Marcus Wittington-Smythe.”
The cultured tones of the barrister set the pretender’s teeth on edge. His voice brought back all the pain and rage from the distant past. Waves of nausea flooded his body, but he forced himself to hold back his emotions. If he let his feelings come through in his voice the barrister might suspect something.
“Mr Wittington-Smythe, I saw him. Your boy. I spoke to him last night.”
“Where? Tell me.”
“Well this piece of paper I’ve got, it says you’re offering a reward, like. How do I get it? I mean, if I tell you where he is, how do I know you’ll pay me what it says on here?”
“I promise you, Mr…what is your name?”
“My name’s not important.”
“I have to call you something.”
The pretender smiled. “You can call me Freddie, if you like. Freddie Mercury.”
“Okay, Freddie. I promise if you lead me to my son the reward will be paid to you. But first you have to convince me you really do know where he is.”
“I told you, I talked to him last night. He wants to come home, but he can’t.”
The pretender heard a sharp intake of breath and smiled again. Now he knew for sure he had the barrister hooked.
“What did he say? Did he tell you why he won’t come home?”
“He said he was too ashamed to face his mother in the state he’s in.” The pretender was flying now, words falling into the phone that he didn’t even know he was going to say until he said them. “He’s heavily into drugs, but wants to get clean. He said he’d meet you tonight, but don’t bring his mother. He wants you to take him to rehab somewhere and not tell your wife until he’s clean again.”
“I’ll come without his mother, tell him that. He can stay in our town flat tonight and I’ll take him to The Abbey Clinic tomorrow first thing. What time and where?”
“I’ll have to call you. I don’t know where he is right now, but he told me last night he was coming back this way to score.”
“To score? I thought you said he wanted to go into rehab.”
The pretender laughed. “You don’t know much about junkies, do you? He wants to go into rehab, but that doesn’t mean he’ll stop using before he has to. As soon as he gets here, I’ll call you.”
“But where is here? You haven’t told me where to meet you.”
“No, and I’m not going to either. I want to make sure I get my money and if I tell you where to go, you might just turn up there without the cash. No, this is how it’s going to work. I’ll call you when he’s in the area and tell you where to meet me. You bring five thousand pounds in cash. I check it’s all there and show you your boy in the distance. I take the money. You go and pick up your son.”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
The pretender laughed out loud. He couldn’t help himself. “You don’t, but look at it this way, if you can’t see your son standing a little way off, don’t give me the money. What it comes down to is how much you want to get your son home again. It’s as simple as that. I’ll call you tonight,” he said and ended the call before Wittington-Smythe could ask any more questions.
The pretender waited until it was nearly two in the morning. He liked that time. Everywhere was quiet and there were few people about. The ones who were roaming the streets were generally too drunk or stoned to notice anything out of the ordinary, but he made sure no one was around before he called the barrister.
“Marcus Wittington-Smythe here. Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for your call.”
“Calm down, he’s only just arrived. I can see him from where I’m standing. It looks like he’s settled in for the night. Have you got the reward money?”
“Yes, but it’s staying in my car until I’m certain it’s my boy.”
“Fine by me. I’m at the south gate of the Bradchester Memorial Gardens. There’s an area in front of the gates you can park. If you look through the gates, you’ll be able to see your son on one of the benches. If you’re happy it’s him, you can get the money from your car. If you’re not, you can get back in and drive off. Don’t take too long getting here, though. He might take off again.”
Twenty minutes later the pretender watched as a sleek Mercedes pulled into the parking area. Wittington-Smythe got out and pressed the fob, setting the automatic locking. He dropped the keys into his pocket and looked around. The pretender strolled out from the shadows, making the barrister jump when he spoke.
“Come over here and look through the railings. You can see him clearly on that bench.”
Wittington-Smythe rushed over and peered through the bars.
“Where? I can’t see him!”
The pretender took half a step forward and stabbed the syringe into the barrister’s leg.
“You can’t see him because he’s not there.”
He waited for the insulin to take effect and then searched through the barrister’s pockets. When he found his mobile phone and car keys, he
hurled both over the railings into the park. Another one who wouldn’t be able to drive to the hospital begging for an antidote. Not that Wittington-Smythe looked as if he was going anywhere. He’d already stopped moving.
The pretender took an envelope from his pocket and walked over to the Mercedes. Lifting the windscreen wiper on the passenger side, he slipped the envelope underneath. Another one down, now there were only two left.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Paolo arrived at the crime scene to find a mass of reporters already encamped. How the hell do these vultures know when to turn up? Then he realised they probably have someone listening in to the police frequency. He nodded to the constable manning the tape and showed his warrant card.
“Forensics already in there?”
“Yes, sir. Dr Royston said for you to find her as soon as you arrived.”
“Who discovered the body?”
“The park keeper when he came to unlock the gates, sir. He’s pretty shaken up. WPC Barker is sitting with him in the keeper’s hut. It’s that building over there, sir, just inside the gates.”
“Do we have an identity yet?”
“Not on the body, sir, but the car is registered to Marcus Wittington-Smythe.”
“Thank you. When Detective Sergeant Johnson gets here, tell him I’ve said he’s to interview the park keeper.”
“Will do, sir.”
Paolo smiled his thanks and made his way to the tent shielding the body from the outside world. He stood for a few minutes watching Barbara at work. To his eyes she was getting thinner by the day. Considering she had never carried enough flesh in the first place, he thought she looked like a wraith. Her face was gaunt and the skin seemed stretched across her cheekbones. Surely those she worked with must have realised how ill she was. It seemed inconceivable to Paolo that her loss of weight and terrible pallor hadn’t been noticed. The whiteness of her face made the birthmark on her neck stand out like a neon sign.
As if becoming aware of being under scrutiny, she looked up and smiled at Paolo. It was the kind of smile she used to flash at him before they were stupid enough to have their brief affair that had almost destroyed their friendship. He smiled back, glad to see her looking more relaxed than the last time he’d seen her.
“If I ask for your thoughts, are you going to bite my head off?” he asked, grinning and holding his hands up in mock defence.
“Not this time, no. Even without the tox tests, it’s fairly obvious our man has struck again. What makes it certain is leaving his calling card on the windscreen.”
“Another white envelope?”
Barbara nodded. “Four down, two to go. How the hell have you managed to keep that snippet of information out of the press?”
“I threatened to set fire to anyone who blabbed,” he said.
Barbara raised her eyebrows in question. “And the sensible answer is?”
“I begged them not to let it out. The last thing we need is a copycat leaving similar notes around the town – not to mention more dead bodies to go with duplicated notes. But I don’t think I needed to worry. We’ve not really recovered from George’s antics last year. No one wants to go down the same road and end up out of the force.”
“I take it you’re no closer to finding the connection that links all the victims?” Barbara asked.
“We are,” Paolo said, “but it feels like we’re being led in that direction. I’m not convinced Conrad Stormont is really who we’re looking for, but as his name is the only one that links the first three, we have to follow that wherever it leads us. I’ll leave you to it. Are you conducting the autopsy, or passing it over to Chris?”
“All being well, I’ll be doing it,” she said. “Probably on Tuesday.”
Paolo made a note on his pad. “Let me know the time and I’ll be there.”
He went back outside and walked over to the car which was being readied to load onto a transporter.
“Any sign of the keys?” he asked the man preparing the vehicle for winching.
“Not as far as I could see, guv.”
“Pity,” Paolo said. “It would make it easier for us to check inside.”
“Good morning, sir.”
He turned to see Dave coming towards him from the direction of the keeper’s hut.
“Did you find out anything of use?” Paolo asked.
“Yes and no,” Dave answered. “The keeper wasn’t able to tell us much about the crime scene, but he has sharp eyes.” He held up a bunch of keys and a mobile phone. “He found these on the path.”
Paolo turned back to the transporter. “Hold on a moment. I’d like to check something before you take the car away.”
He clicked the fob and the Mercedes’s lights flashed at him.
“Let’s take a look before it goes to forensics.”
Paolo slipped on some latex gloves and opened the car door. On the passenger seat was a leather briefcase. He reached in and pulled it towards him. Flicking at the two catches, more in hope than expectation, he was amazed when they flipped up. He opened the case and whistled.
“Bloody hell, Dave, come and look at this.”
He stood to one side so that Dave could see in.
“Wow, there must be a few thousand in there. Do you think he was being blackmailed?”
“I don’t know,” Paolo said. “It’s a possibility, I suppose. Maybe all four victims were. There could be nothing more to this case than a desire for money. But if that’s so, why didn’t the killer take it when he left?”
“Maybe Wittington-Smythe, if that’s who this is, was the one who chucked the keys into the park so that the killer couldn’t get the cash.”
Paolo sighed. “Seems a bit far-fetched, though, doesn’t it? I think we need to find out more about Marcus Wittington-Smythe before we jump to any conclusions.”
“Another working Saturday for us?”
“’Fraid so, Dave. I’ve already called CC and Andrea and told them to meet us at the station. There must be some significance in the fact that all the bodies have been found on Saturday mornings. I wish I knew what it was!”
“I wish he’d chosen a weekday. Maybe then Rebecca and I could enjoy a lie in for a change.”
***
Paolo sat on the desk at the front of the room and ran over what they knew about Marcus Wittington-Smythe.
“Firstly, we have discovered Wittington-Smythe is a barrister. In view of the fact that Peter Bishop is a solicitor, that could be significant. Unfortunately, it could also be a coincidence. Every time we think we’re getting to grips with events in this case, something happens to take us in a different direction.”
He stood up and walked across to the board, filling in information as he spoke. “He was staying in his Bradchester flat for the weekend because he was due to speak at a Bar Council dinner this evening. Obviously, we will have to notify the organisers, but not until we’ve spoken to his wife. She is at their home on Rutland Water. Dave and I will be going to break the bad news to her as soon as we’ve finished here.”
He turned back to face the room. “He had five thousand pounds in his briefcase, locked inside the car. If it wasn’t for the method of killing, I’d be thinking this was a case of blackmail gone wrong, but everything points to the same perpetrator. So, what’s the connection between Wittington-Smythe and the others? Did Peter Bishop instruct Wittington-Smythe to act for him? That’s something to ask Constance Myers to look into. It might help to narrow down the search. On the other hand, it might complicate matters unnecessarily. I feel as if we’re sinking into quicksand with this case and I don’t like it.”
Paolo noticed CC staring into space. It wasn’t like her not to pay attention.
“Are you with us, CC?”
She looked at him and frowned. “There’s something running around in my head to do with that name, but I can’t quite grasp it. I’m going to run an online search on it to see what I can come up with.”
Paolo nodded. “You do that. Dave, let’s pay a v
isit to Rutland Water.”
Dave stood up, but made no move to grab his jacket. “Um, before we go, there’s something I’d like to say.”
CC and Andrea were side by side looking at the computer screen. Dave raised his voice.
“Um, it’s something I want to say to you two as well.”
“Sounds ominous,” CC said. “Dave, are you blushing? Dear God, I do believe the man has turned into a lobster.”
Dave grinned. “Last night, I asked Rebecca to marry me and she said yes. We’re having an engagement party and you’re all invited.”
Paolo waited until CC and Andrea had hugged Dave before stepping over and holding out his hand.
“I’m delighted for you. When’s the party?”
“And where?” CC called out.
“We’re holding it at the ice rink. They’ve got a great function room upstairs and there’s plenty of parking. It’s on Saturday 23rd of August.”
Paolo smiled. “That’s great. Rebecca is back the night before, so I won’t be turning up on my own.”
“That makes a change, sir,” CC said. “We’ll have to get used to you being part of a couple. You usually arrive pretending you want to be there, stay for an hour and then disappear.” She smiled. “It’s nice to see you looking happy.”
Paolo suddenly felt like an unwelcome spotlight had been shone on him. “Yes, well, let’s not forget it’s Dave’s good news we’re celebrating, not mine. As for looking happy, I’m only going to be able to do that once we’ve caught this madman.”
***
Dave drove along Rutland Water to a tiny hamlet nestling on the edge of the shoreline. It seemed to consist almost entirely of large detached properties, many with gardens running down to the water’s edge where private moorings had been erected. He pulled the car into the drive of Marcus Wittington-Smythe’s house.
“One thing about the victims in this case, sir, none of them was short of money. Even though Peter Bishop was a pauper compared to the professor, Mr Fulbright and today’s victim, he was better off than the average person. Do you think it could be simple class or money envy?”
Call It Pretending (#3 - D.I. Paolo Storey Crime Series) Page 16