Paolo unlocked his seatbelt and slipped out of the car. “It’s a possibility, but I don’t think so. My gut is screaming that there is an obvious connection, if only we knew where to look. Come on; let’s break the bad news to Mrs Wittington-Smythe.”
The intercom was answered by a young-sounding voice, but when Paolo said who he was and asked if he was speaking to Mrs Wittington-Smythe, the girl giggled.
“Oh, no, sir. She’s still asleep. Shall I wake her up?”
“Yes, please, but could you let us in before you do so?”
There was a click and the gate swung open. They walked along a wide path bordered with vibrant and sweet-smelling shrubs until they reached a small wooden bridge spanning a pond with giant fish swimming contently in the reflected sunlight.
As he stepped onto the bridge, Paolo wondered if it was meant to symbolise a moat, then shook off the thought. If he was reduced to searching for symbolism where none probably existed, he really had lost touch with his own common sense.
“They’re supposed to be lucky, sir.”
Halfway across the bridge Paolo turned back. “What are?”
“Carp. I’m fairly sure they’re carp. Koi’s the proper name. The Japanese hold them in very high regard in the luck department.”
“Really?” Paolo said. “Maybe we should get a couple and carry them around in the car with us. We need all the luck we can get with this case.”
As they came off the wooden bridge, the front door opened and a young woman of about twenty stood smiling at them.
“Come in. I’ve woken Mrs Wittington-Smythe and she’ll be down shortly. She said for you to go in and wait for her in the conservatory. I’ve already put the coffee on.”
She gestured down the hall towards the back of the property, so Paolo and Dave followed her pointing finger. The conservatory when they reached it was nothing like the structure Paolo had pictured. This was a glass fronted room, almost as big as his flat, overlooking Rutland Water. The view was spectacular.
Dave whistled. “Wow, this place must have cost a fortune. Some people have all the luck. Those fish must have worked.”
Paolo spun back and glared. “I know you’re in a good mood and I’m happy for you. Really I am, but for Christ’s sake, Dave, just come back down to earth will you! How lucky is the woman we’re about to see? How lucky would you feel if I turned up to tell you we’d found Rebecca’s body in a car park and had no idea who’d killed her or why?”
Dave looked down at his feet. “Sorry, sir. You’re right. I’ve allowed my—”
He never got to finish his sentence. A middle-aged woman in a flowing black and gold kimono rushed into the conservatory.
“Have you found him? Where is he? Can I see him?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs Wittington-Smythe. Yes, we have. We will need you to make a formal identification later.”
She sank into one of the overstuffed cane chairs facing the water.
“Oh God. When Sally told me you were here, I thought…that is, I hoped…but I should have known. Where did you find his body?”
Paolo sat down opposite. “You expected this?”
She raised a ragged, tear-drenched face. “Not expected it, no, but I’m not surprised either. Where did you find him?”
“In the car park outside the Bradchester Memorial Gardens.”
“That makes sense. Was it drugs that killed him?”
Feeling completely at sea, Paolo wondered how on earth she knew.
“Mrs Wittington-Smythe, are you saying you expected your husband to die as a result of taking drugs?”
She shook her head. “My husband? No, why on earth would I think that?” Her face changed as the realisation hit home. “It’s my husband that’s dead?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. We found his body this morning.”
“My husband? Not my son? You haven’t found Gareth?” Then the enormity of what Paolo had said seemed to overwhelm her. “Marcus is dead? Why? How? It’s not possible.”
“Mrs Wittington-Smythe, your husband had a large amount of cash in his briefcase. Do you have any idea why he would be carrying so much around with him?”
She didn’t answer, but sat staring out onto the water as if hypnotised.
“Dave, go and find out what’s taking so long with the coffee. I think Mrs Wittington-Smythe is in shock.”
Paolo waited until Dave came back with a tray laden with coffee and biscuits.
“She said she was waiting for Mrs Wittington-Smythe to call her to bring the tray in,” Dave said.
Paolo poured a cup of coffee and then leaned forward to put it on a side table next to the stricken woman’s chair.
“Mrs Wittington-Smythe, would you like to talk to me about your son?”
She shook her head. “No point. He’s gone and not coming back. Now Marcus is gone, too.”
“Did your husband mention meeting someone? Do you know if he was planning to pay for something?”
“I expect it was the reward money. I told him it was a waste of time, but he never listened to me.”
“Reward money?” Paolo prompted.
“Yes, five thousand pounds he offered to anyone who found Gareth alive. I don’t think Gareth wants to be found. Or he didn’t. He might want to, now that Marcus is dead.”
“Your husband and son didn’t get on?”
“Gareth is gay. When he…what’s the expression? When he came out, my husband couldn’t handle it. They had a massive argument and Gareth left. I think he went to London, but I don’t know for certain. Over time Marcus convinced himself that Gareth had a drug problem and that was why he acted as he did. Isn’t that funny?” she said, tears streaming down her face. “My husband thought it was more acceptable socially for our son to be a drug addict than to be gay.”
She took a crumpled tissue from the pocket of her kimono and wiped away the tears.
“Marcus put up posters all over town some months ago offering a reward of five thousand pounds. You see, Inspector, he loved Gareth and wanted him to come home. He could deal with him being an addict, because that is curable. He couldn’t deal with him being a homosexual because there isn’t a cure for it. And now Marcus is dead. What happened to him?”
Paolo told her the little they knew, but his mind was running on a different track. Was there a connection between Peter Bishop, who had been gay and Gareth Wittington-Smythe? He made an arrangement for Mrs Wittington-Smythe to identify her husband’s body and promised to keep her informed of any developments, but he had the impression she was mourning the loss of her son, rather than that of her husband.
As they crossed over the carp pond on the way back to the car, Dave touched his arm. He looked back.
“I just wanted to say sorry, sir. That was crass of me in there.”
Paolo patted Dave’s shoulder. “That’s okay. Just don’t let it happen again.”
They finished the short walk outside in silence and Paolo was about to open the passenger door when his phone rang. Recognising the call tune as being from CC, he answered it before getting in the car.
“Two things, sir. Firstly, I know why the victim’s name rang bells for me. His son is on the missing person’s list.”
“Well done,” Paolo said. There was no point in taking away her pleasure in the discovery by spouting that they already knew. He’d fill her in on the reward angle later. “What’s the second thing?”
“Not so positive, I’m afraid. Chief Constable Willows has come in.”
“On a Saturday?”
“Yes, sir, and he’s not happy at all. He wants you in his office as soon as you step foot in the station.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Paolo stood in front of the Chief Constable’s desk and waited for the volley of words to dry up. While the tirade of blame for lack of progress swirled about him, his mind was listing all the possible connections to the victims. Conrad Stormont was connected to three of them, but that didn’t necessarily make him the murderer. Peter Bishop and Gareth
Wittington-Smythe were, or possibly still is in Gareth’s case if he’s alive, homosexuals. But that didn’t sit right either. Why kill the father and not the son? Was the sexuality even relevant?
“Are you listening to me, Paolo?”
“Yes, sir, and I agree with everything you’ve said.”
“You haven’t heard a bloody word I’ve said, so don’t give me that. What the hell is going on? We’ve got people dropping like flies and you don’t have a clue who’s doing it or why? What am I supposed to tell the press? Hey? Answer me that!”
Paolo toyed with the idea of giving an honest answer, but the Chief Constable already looked on the verge of a heart attack. Advising him to tell the press to stuff their notepads and microphones up each other’s backsides probably wasn’t a good idea.
“You can tell them we have several lines of enquiry and are following definite leads.”
Willows glared. “And are you? Do you even have any leads?”
“In a word, sir, no. But we’re doing the best we can. We will find the link between the victims, but unless the killer is going to do us a favour and send an email spelling it out, it’s going to take time. This case only started on the 26th of July. It’s now the 16th of August. Not even a month. How many cases get solved in three weeks? Not many, you know that.”
Willows thumped the desk with his fist. “Of course I know it, but how many cases turn up a dead body every Saturday over the same period? Very few. The press are calling him the Saturday Man. You know full well once they give the perpetrator a name they won’t back off. It’s news for them and sells papers.”
“Let them sell their papers. I’m not interested,” Paolo said, barely able to keep his voice level. “I’m doing the best I can, sir, and so is my team. I know it doesn’t seem good enough, but I can assure you, none of us is slacking. We simply don’t know where to look at the moment.”
“Well, unless you come up with some answers fairly soon, I’m under pressure to bring in some outside help. I’d hate to do it to you, Paolo, but maybe this is a job for the Met.”
When he was finally able to get away from Willows, Paolo went into the main office and rapped on the whiteboard to get everyone’s attention.
“Okay, listen up, everyone. This is now a working weekend. I want volunteers for tomorrow. We are going to look into the backgrounds of all the victims, their families, their friends, work colleagues, children, previous partners, sexual preferences, alcohol and drug use, where they went to school, who they knew at university, where they’ve lived since birth and any other item of information I can think of between now and the time we solve this case. Right, who’s in for the long haul?”
He was relieved to see Dave, CC and Andrea’s hands shoot up. As long as he had those on side, Paolo knew if there was a connection to find, they’d find it. He walked over to the windows and looked down onto the street below. Photographers and reporters filled the road. He turned back and signalled for one of the uniformed officers to come over.
“Nip downstairs and get a couple of colleagues to go out with you and clear the street. Just because it’s news to them doesn’t mean they can turn my investigation into a circus.”
Paolo left his team to man the phones and search through databases; he had a call to make that might just solve the riddle of how the deaths were connected. Or, if not solve it, at least it might rule out a few possibilities.
He walked into his office and swore he’d have a full weekend off at some point in the future if it killed him. As he settled behind his desk, he wondered how Jessica was getting on at the conference. They’d chatted a few times, but he missed her even more than he’d expected to. At least she’d be home in a week and back in time for Dave and Rebecca’s engagement party. He smiled, thinking of the journey those two had made to be together. If he and Jessica could be as happy…he stopped himself from wandering down that road. Let’s just see how things develop, he thought. Trying to find the link between the victims was his immediate priority.
Paolo picked up the piece of paper with Constance Myers’ home number and hoped she wasn’t out. He dialled and listened to the sound ringing on and on. Just as he was about to put the phone down, a breathless voice answered.
“Hello.”
“Ms Myers, this is Detective Inspector Storey. I’m sorry to disturb you on a Saturday, but I need your assistance.”
“Could it not wait until Monday? I was on my way to meet a friend for her birthday lunch. You’re lucky to catch me. If I hadn’t forgotten her card, I wouldn’t have been here.”
“I’d just like a few moments of your time. I’m afraid there’s been another murder and we feel it might be connected to the death of Peter Bishop.”
Paolo heard a sharp intake of breath.
“Good grief! Who? Not one of our office staff?”
“No, sorry, I should have realised you’d think that. No, not anyone from your office.”
“Then I fail to see how I can help you. I’m sorry; I really do have to go.”
“It’s a barrister,” Paolo said before she could put the phone down. “I simply want to know if Peter Bishop ever instructed Marcus Wittington-Smythe.”
There was another sharp intake of breath. “Yes,” Constance said. “Mr Bishop and Mr Wittington-Smythe were professional colleagues and personal friends. They socialised quite a lot together, I believe. Please don’t tell me that’s who is dead.”
“I’m sorry, I’m afraid it is.”
“What do you need me to do?”
“Could you look closely at all the cases where Mr Bishop instructed Mr Wittington-Smythe to act for him?”
“But there will be so many. They frequently worked together on cases.”
“Yes, but we are looking for a particular connection. I know you’ve been searching for any mention of Conrad Stormont, Edwin Fulbright and Professor Edwards, but we now need to add Mr Wittington-Smythe into the mix.”
“I can’t start today,” she said, “but I’ll go into the office tomorrow to see what I can uncover. On Monday, I’ll set another girl to the task as well. That will be three of us going over the cases. We should be able to give you an answer in a couple of days, even if it’s a negative one to say there isn’t a case connecting them.”
“Thank you, Ms Myers. Enjoy your lunch.”
She laughed. “I will if my friend forgives me for keeping her waiting, which is not very likely as she is not the most patient of people and I obviously cannot tell her why I’m late.”
“My apologies,” Paolo said.
“Accepted, and now I really must go. Goodbye.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Jon sat in the hospital canteen on Wednesday and saw his life stretching ahead, unchanged for years to come. He’d be forever tied to Andy through chains of guilt and never able to live a life of his own. The letter from Leicester, saying regretfully he didn’t get the job he needed so badly, lay on the table in front of him.
He’d picked it up as he’d arrived home the night before, convinced it was his passport to freedom. When he’d seen the words of rejection, he thought maybe he hadn’t read the letter correctly. On second reading, with Andy’s voice whinging from the front room, the truth had sunk in. He hadn’t got the job. Fuck it, he hadn’t got the job.
It wouldn’t even have been a step up in pay scale, or anything close to a better job than he was doing here in Bradchester. But it would have meant moving to Leicester and getting away from Andy.
He looked at his colleagues, huddled together on a table as far from his as they could get. Every so often one of them would glance in his direction and the whispering would start up again. In the centre of it all sat Iain. Iain who’d turned everyone against him and wouldn’t even tell him why.
Maybe he should go home and climb into bed. He could tell Mr Montague he was sick. It was almost true. He felt ill. He still hadn’t figured out who put the ‘murderer’ note through his letterbox, although it seemed likely to be Gordon. It would
be exactly the type of thing that moron would find funny. That’s why Jon had kept it to himself. He was determined not to give Gordon the pleasure of seeing it had riled him.
Another burst of laughter from the table across the room made up his mind for him. He’d never pulled a sickie since he’d started at the hospital, but he was going to today.
He stood up and carried his tray to the rack. Keeping his head averted, he left the canteen and went to find his boss. He’d say he had flu, get his things, and go home to bed.
As he got off the bus and walked towards his flat, Jon knew he’d made the right decision. Going to work each day was draining him of the will to live. No one spoke to him; no one even acknowledged his existence. Maybe he could find something different to do here in Bradchester. Even if he couldn’t escape from Andy by moving out of town, he had to find somewhere new to work or he’d go insane. As it was, he’d had to get his shrink to increase his medication.
He wasn’t used to being out in the afternoon sunshine during the week and thought about sloping off to the park, instead of going home, but he felt so weary, sleep was top of his list of things to do.
Jon eased open the front door as quietly as possible in the hope of sneaking through to his bedroom without Andy realising he was home. As he tiptoed across the hall, he heard footsteps in the lounge. Probably that bastard Gordon, he decided. Then he heard unmistakeable sounds from overhead, so it couldn’t be their creepy neighbour. So who the hell did Andy have in today? Jon’s anger, already simmering, rose to a furious boil. He stood and listened for conversation, but there wasn’t any, just the sounds of someone going into the kitchen. Then he heard the kettle start to boil. Whoever it was clearly felt at home.
Should he go in and find out who the mystery visitor was, or go to bed? The slamming of a cupboard door convinced him. It sounded as though the person was preparing a feast in there with food Jon had had to work in that shithole hospital to pay for. Enough was enough. If Andy was inviting people round to eat, then he could bloody well pay towards the supermarket bill from now on.
Call It Pretending (#3 - D.I. Paolo Storey Crime Series) Page 17