CXVI The Beginning of the End (Book 1): A Gripping Murder Mystery and Suspense Thriller (CXVI BOOK 1)

by Angie Smith

  She smiled. Her normal response would be, ‘What the hell has that got to do with you?’ but Woods was different; he never pried into her private life and that’s one of the reasons she liked him. “No, I don’t have a boyfriend; I live with my cat Felix in a one bedroom flat overlooking the park.”

  Woods nodded. “Do you have any siblings?”

  She smiled again. “I have a younger brother who’s studying at Oxford for an MSc in Russian and East European Studies. My parents live in Wales and I try to see them as much as possible, but as you’ll know work pressures come first.”

  “Don’t do what I did and neglect your parents. Life’s too short; make the most of it while you can and before it’s too late.”

  “You haven’t answered my question; I asked what Pamela would think to you working under the radar?”

  “She won’t mind; I’ll drive her crazy if I don’t have anything to do.”

  Barnes refrained from commenting. She looked at her watch, “I’d better get back to work and see if Dudley has been put in charge. I’ll sort out a couple of unregistered mobiles and call to see you in a few days. Hopefully by then I’ll have the laboratory report. Take care and stay safe - and don’t drink any more coffee.”

  Woods smiled. “I’m glad you’re on my side,” he said.

  Chapter 11

  Wednesday 30th May – Thursday 31st May.

  Barnes was slightly out of breath after sprinting up the stairs and back into the Incident Room. Foster, McLean, Jacobs, West and Dudley were already waiting. Foster had called for everyone to be back by four o’clock for an impromptu meeting to discuss the allocation of duties following Woods’ admission to hospital and the likelihood of a long sickness absence.

  “Ah, Maria, glad you made it,” Foster said, looking concerned. “How was he?”

  “Tired; in some pain. He couldn’t remember much of what happened.”

  “Do they know what caused it?” McLean asked.

  “They’re doing tests, but stress, long hours and poor diet haven’t helped.”

  “Any idea how long he’s going to be away from work?” Dudley asked.

  “At least three months.”

  Foster’s stance softened. “Thanks for going to see him; I’ll go at the weekend.” He turned to face the others. “The reason I’ve got you all together is to announce that in Greg’s absence I’ll be taking over the investigation.” He paused, Barnes presumed to let the gravity of what he’d said sink in. “I’m just about up to speed with how things are progressing, and the Chief Constable would like me to take over the reins.” He looked at Barnes, “Maria, can you report to Hilton and work alongside him for the time being.”

  She glanced over and gave Dudley one of her uncomprehending looks. “That’s fine,” she said calmly.

  “Very well, you all know what we need to be focusing on, so let’s try and turn this complex investigation into a decisive conclusion.” Foster waited for a few seconds, “Oh, I’ll be using Greg’s office from now on. If you need anything you know where I am.”

  When Foster disappeared into his new office Barnes went over to Dudley, who’d gone back to his desk and was sitting looking at the computer. She stood quietly for a moment, slowly scrutinising him. Finally she spoke. “I’m in the middle of looking into Gerrard Crean’s missing fortunes. I’ve got the guys from the National Fraud Intelligence Bureau going through the deals that went so badly wrong, and I was planning visiting Pauline tomorrow morning and asking about who he’d been dealing with in the months leading up to his death. I’ve discovered he donated millions to several big charities and I wanted to check out these contributions and see if anything untoward happened there. Is that okay with you, or have you got something else you’d rather I was getting on with?”

  Dudley smiled, his perfectly white teeth gleaming. “No, that’s fine, Maria. I’m busy trying to locate Zielinski; I’ve traced his parents and spoken to them. . .”

  “You can speak Polish as well as Spanish?” she said, giving him a resigned look.

  “How do you know I can speak Spanish?”

  “You’d spoken to Ramírez’s father.”

  He nodded succinctly. “Good deduction.”

  “So, where did you learn Polish?”

  “University.”

  She smiled sweetly. “I know a little Polish, but I can speak Russian fluently.”

  “Your talents are wasted here, Maria.”

  “I doubt that,” she replied bashfully. “Anyway what did Zielinski’s parents say?”

  “He never returned home and the money he was sending them suddenly ceased. They’d tried to contact him via the Polish network here in the UK, but didn’t have any success. They haven’t heard from him since and he was never reported as a missing person.”

  She paused to give the impression she was thinking; then she pulled a swivel chair over and seated herself nearer to him. “The more I uncover about Gerrard Crean, the more I believe he wasn’t the monster the papers claim him to be. I can’t be certain yet, but under normal circumstances, I doubt he was the type to have either Zielinski or Ramírez killed. I don’t know, but maybe becoming terminally ill unbalanced his state of mind.”

  Dudley nodded in agreement, so she continued. “Therefore, I believe his intention with both Zielinski and Ramírez was to kick them out of the country and metaphorically his life. They were both foreign nationals and sending them packing was probably the least risky option.”

  “I might accept that in the case of Ramírez, where there is a record of her going back to Spain, but Zielinski never left the UK, unless it was under a new identity.”

  Barnes, who was unconvinced, shook her head. “What if Crean’s plan was to rough up Zielinski — similar to what he’d done to Mateland — and then send him packing? Let’s say, just as he’d done with Ramírez, but something went wrong and Zielinski was accidentally killed. Crean’s only option would then have been to dispose of the body and clear up the mess; that’s why there’s no trace of him. If he’d left under a new identity he’d have contacted his parents, even if it was a postcard or a quick call to let them know he was alive.”

  Dudley smiled. “So why can’t we find Ramírez?”

  “Because we’re not looking hard enough. She’ll be in contact with her parents and, for whatever reason, they’ll be protecting her identity. Ask yourself why they acted so strangely when Chris Jacobs showed up yesterday. Is that normal behaviour of parents who supposedly haven’t seen or heard from their only daughter for the past twenty years?”

  “That’s not a bad deduction either, Maria. Perhaps I should come with you to see Pauline and look at who Gerrard was associating with at the time Zielinski disappeared.”

  That crooked smile materialised on her face again. “Why don’t you stay here and assist Jacobs with the search for Ramírez? I’ll ask Pauline for you. That way we’re not wasting time.”

  Dudley nodded. “Sounds good.”

  Barnes got up from the chair. “Great, can I get you a coffee?” she asked, and without waiting for an answer she walked away towards her desk.

  Thursday 31st May.

  As she drove out of Leyburn and headed along the A684 towards Hawes, Barnes was awestruck with the twisting narrow roads, the crumbling stone walls, the lush rolling green fields and the beautiful countryside. She drove past the signpost to Aysgarth Falls and thought how picturesque and idyllic it all was. How lucky are people who live here? she mused, missing the turning towards the farmhouse, and having to drive through and back around Hawes, with its quirky one-way system, tiny shops and bustling streets.

  It was therefore 9.15 a.m. when she drove up the lane towards Pauline’s farmhouse, and she was surprised to see a smartly dressed dark-suited man standing guard at the entrance gates. She pressed the button and the driver’s door window descended; the man stepped forward to address her.

  “Good morning,” Barnes said, holding out her ID. “Mrs Crean’s expecting me.” She’d telephone
d before leaving Wakefield; explained that Woods was in hospital and no longer in charge of the investigation, and said she needed to speak with Pauline.

  “Good morning, Sergeant Barnes,” the man replied in a friendly welcoming voice. He spoke into the two-way radio announcing her arrival and the gates opened immediately. “You can drive in now. Please park adjacent to the stable block.”

  Barnes complied and as she stepped from the vehicle she spotted two more smartly dressed men patrolling the grounds and another one down by the lake.

  Pauline was waiting to greet her at the entrance doors and the three dogs came running out. As they all went indoors Barnes was introduced to Inwood and Simonstone who both made themselves busy elsewhere leaving her and Pauline alone in the living room.

  “You certainly are well protected, Pauline. How many guys have you watching the farmhouse and the grounds?”

  “Eight bodyguards and two police officers,” Pauline replied, looking embarrassed. “I know it’s over the top, but I need to feel safe.”

  Barnes nodded briefly, as Pauline continued. “It’s ridiculous; I couldn’t imagine Gerrard ever harming a single hair on my body; it’s the hype and anxiety that have forced me into this. I bet you think I’m crazy.”

  Barnes shook her head. “It must be costing a fortune though.”

  Pauline appeared unfazed. “The money’s not important,” she said, but quickly added, “I didn’t mean that to sound how it did. Of course it’s important; I’d rather be safe and poor than wealthy and living in fear.” She gave a sad smile, “I understand you would like to ask me some more questions about Gerrard.”

  Barnes leaned forward and spent a few moments reinforcing the impression she was building up of Gerrard, together with her view that he was unlikely to want to harm anyone.

  “That’s very kind, Maria. I appreciate you saying that,” Pauline responded affectionately. “If you read the papers you could be forgiven for thinking he was a nasty vindictive person who went around killing people, which is so far off-piste it’s laughable.”

  Barnes smiled in agreement and took the opportunity to ask about Gerrard’s charity donations.

  “He was a very modest person who generally tried to keep his generosity out of the public gaze. Unfortunately sometimes his wishes were compromised, but he supported most of the main charities: Cancer Research, Heart Foundation, Breast Cancer, Epilepsy Research, Macmillan, Alzheimer’s, Help the Aged, Dogs Trust, Barnardo’s, UNICEF, RSPCA, etc., etc., etc.”

  “I understand he also supported smaller charities,” Barnes added.

  “Yes, he’d never say exactly how much he donated, but over the years it totalled tens if not hundreds of millions.”

  “What is Blueberry Woods?”

  Pauline smiled. “That was one of Gerrard’s favourites. It provided support to people and families whose loved ones had suffered brain injuries. I can’t remember how he first came across them, but he bought the land and partly funded the building of their fantastic new centre on the outskirts of Barrow-in-Furness.”

  Barnes, who’d been busy scribbling down notes, now looked up. “Can I move on and ask you who Gerrard was associating with in the months leading up to his death?”

  “Mainly family and close friends. He’d reduced his contact with work colleagues to an absolute minimum.”

  “But he was still bringing deals to the table.”

  Pauline smiled ruefully. “You mean the ones he lost all the money on.”

  Barnes affirmed.

  “It didn’t bother him, he just shrugged it off and said we’d not to worry about it. Obviously he’d other things on his mind, and as time went by he became withdrawn. He was desperately trying to sort things out before he died; the last thing he wanted was to leave any loose ends.”

  “Was there anyone new who appeared around that time, or were there any unusual characters, people out of the norm?”

  Pauline huffed, “Albion Bedford.”

  Barnes wrote down the name. “Who’s he?” she asked.

  “Gerrard employed him through the business and used him when sorting out awkward people. Don’t get me wrong, there was nothing unsavoury about it, everything was legal and above board, but I suppose you’d refer to him as someone who’d persuade people to be more reasonable.”

  Barnes raised one eyebrow.

  “It sounds worse than it actually was,” Pauline said. “You see, in business you always get the ones who are after trying it on, the ones who won’t accept the fair offer and who want to hold you over a barrel and take your very last penny. Do you know what I mean?”

  Barnes nodded even though she was unconvinced.

  “Well, when Gerrard had tried everything he could to get these people on board, and they were still being difficult, he’d turn to Albion Bedford - who’d have a friendly chat with them and resolve any difficulties.”

  “Yes, I bet he did,” Barnes said, chewing the top of her pen. “Was Albion Bedford around when Gerrard had the trouble with Victor Zielinski?”

  Pauline looked puzzled.

  “The care worker mistreating his mother,” Barnes clarified.

  “Yes, he’d been around for years; he was good at tracking people down and keeping tabs on them.”

  “The home say Gerrard never contacted them about the abuse, so they hadn’t sacked Zielinski, or reported him to the police; they say he just disappeared.”

  Pauline scowled. “I’m sure Gerrard said he’d been sacked.”

  “Is it possible that Gerrard turned to Bedford for help with Zielinski?”

  Pauline paused, looked up at the ceiling and shrugged her shoulders. “I suppose so…” she said. “You’d have to ask him.”

  “Was he around when Ramírez tried to blackmail Gerrard?”

  Pauline nodded. “I think he first started working for Gerrard around the early 90s, so he may have assisted with her too.”

  “Do you have a contact number?”

  “Are you thinking he might be the killer?”

  “I’m looking into all possibilities.”

  “I’ll get his details.” Pauline went to the bureau and brought Bedford’s business card over.

  “Before I go I’d like to ask about the time Gerrard was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Were you with him?”

  “Yes I was. It was all a bit surreal. Dr Webster, the Oncologist, walked into the treatment room in her white coat and told him the tests had shown the disease was well advanced and he only had a short time left. I was stunned; the news was like an unexpected punch in the abdomen. I asked about possible treatments, but she said they would only prolong the agony; there was no cure. I couldn’t believe it. Gerrard accepted it; he was so matter-of-fact about it, and asked how long he had left. Dr Webster said between twelve and twenty-four months. And that was it. I tried to get him to look at alternative treatments, you know, those still in development, or to go for a second opinion, but he wasn’t interested in other treatments and assured me Dr Webster was the best there was.”

  “How was Gerrard once the news had sunk in?”

  “There was no anger, no remorse, no regrets, just acceptance, and then, as I’ve said, he became withdrawn and focused on sorting things out before he died.”

  Barnes sat deep in thought, twiddling the pen between her fingers.

  “What is it, Maria?” Pauline asked.

  “I’m trying to understand what made Gerrard change.”

  There was a prolonged sigh. “Gerrard was my calming influence. Years ago I was the hot-headed and revengeful one, and he would always tell me to let things go and move on in life, and to remember that usually people got their comeuppance. Apart from the time he roughed up Mateland, I can’t remember him treating anyone with anything other than respect, and good intentions, even Bulmer who he blamed for the death of our unborn child.”

  Barnes sat in silence, mulling over the words. “I don’t get it,” she said eventually. “No anger, no bitterness, no ill feelings and yet a d
ecision to have the people murdered who caused you and him the most distress. Where did that come from?”

  Pauline’s lips knitted together; Barnes could sense she was fighting back the emotions. “How do you think I feel, Maria? I’ve got people telling me I’m in danger, and need protection, yet the reason for this is my late husband’s resentment of something I doubt he knew anything about. It doesn’t make rhyme or reason.”

  Barnes gave a hint of a smile. “I think we’re missing something that’s probably so obvious it’s staring us in the face. We need to stand back and relook.”

  Pauline appeared lost in her thoughts.

  “Right, thank you. I’m going to visit Mr Bedford and see what light, if any, he can throw on things.” Barnes got up and Pauline went with her to the door.

  “Please keep me informed, Maria, and give my regards to Superintendent Woods. I hope he’ll be feeling better soon.”

  As Barnes made her way over to the car, she turned around and smiled. “What would Gerrard have made of all this?” she shouted back, pointing at the protection officers patrolling the grounds.

  “That I’m overreacting.”

  Is that all part of the plan? Barnes thought, getting in the car and switching on the sat-nav. She entered Barrow-in-Furness and then drove towards the slowly opening entrance gates. “Bye,” she shouted, waving at the smartly dressed man standing guard outside on the lane.

  It was just before lunchtime when Barnes arrived at Blueberry Woods. The relatively new, futuristic looking building was situated on the edge of woodland, the setting both peaceful and tranquil. She pulled up in the car park, sitting for several minutes studying the building and its grounds. She stepped out and walked over and through the main entrance, arriving at the reception desk. She looked up and on the wall noticed Gerrard Crean’s portrait hanging above a plaque commemorating the grand opening of the building in 2004. The receptionist was a middle-aged, plump friendly woman wearing a pure white uniform with Blueberry Woods finely inscribed on the lapel in striking turquoise.