The Diane Dimbleby Murder Collection Volume 2

by Penelope Sotheby

  Beside the tall spiked gate stood a single police constable, the neat uniform and shining shoes and badge on the helmet seemingly transported from a pre-war photograph. Crothers wondered if he had a bicycle propped against the back of the wall. Had he been called from chasing children that were scrumping for apples in a farmer’s orchard?

  As the car pulled towards the gate, the Constable raised his hand to motion the vehicle to a standstill, as if the imposing wrought iron gate was not right behind him. He walked slowly to the driver’s window, and Mills rolled it down, flashing his identification at the stooping officer.

  “Ah, oh, very good sir,” said the Constable as he stepped back and straightened up.

  “Any visitors I should know about?”

  “No, sir. No-one that doesn’t live here. And the residents have been kept inside, as you requested.”

  “Very good.” Mills waved a hand at a keypad that curved from a pole several feet before the gate. “How about the key logs for the gate?”

  “Mr. Matthew Buchan has been retrieving those, sir. He’s a resident and the go-between for the residents and the company that owns the property. He said he would meet you by the house, sir.”

  “Excellent. Well, thank you, Constable…”

  “Michaels, sir.”

  “Thank you, Michaels. Now key us in, if you would.”

  Michaels saluted and turned very stiffly to the keypad. The local police had been given their own keycode for the gates when the property had been built, in case of emergencies. Mills had been given the code but always enjoyed flexing a little authoritarian muscle once in a while.

  With the last keystroke, the gates shuddered and began to slide to the left across, the black spikes waggling like a troop of drunken pikemen across a tar-black river.

  Mills moved the car through the gate and gave the constable a cursory salute. Crothers watched the road snake away ahead of them, up a small rise through what had once been neatly trimmed hedges. Beyond the hedges, grass that should have been neatly manicured was splotched brown in places, and a steady breeze rippled the overly long blades.

  The road looked smooth from the gateway and yet as they passed over it, holes and cracks appeared, hidden by shadow from outsiders. A lane branched from the main road that led down to a swimming pool that had a sagging blue plastic sheet draped over it, held in place at the edges by several large tires.

  The grounds spoke of past wealth, of a place that had once had staff to maintain it, of a place that was cutting budgets by removing the non-essential in order to fight for fiscal life. The sights on the drive to the collection of houses were enough to tell Inspector Crothers that the company that ran the place was in financial trouble.

  Houses stood at the top of the first rise. Each had two floors with a basement level that opened up behind the house onto a large deck. Fake wooden beams outlined regions of the exterior of the house while a light brown filled in the areas between them and the windows.

  As the car pulled past the first houses, Crothers could see that every house was identical in every way. Small green patches of grass surrounded by low rockwork and shrubs sat at the front, the grass wrapping around either side and continuing to a spacious area behind. There were no fences. Nothing to delineate one property from the next and, Crothers assumed, keep the view of everyone else from being spoiled.

  And what a view it was. The vantage point of the houses on the rise gave an unhindered view of the surrounding countryside. A small waterway wrapped around the edge of the property and a wall of trees sprouted from the far bank. Each house looked out over the tops of a many-hued woodland, blemished only by a sporadic mobile phone tower. There was an ancient look to the trees, as if looking out upon an earlier century before humanity had sliced its way through nature. There was a peace and calm to the surrounding land, the bustle of the modern world hidden for the most part so that tranquillity remained.

  Mills pulled the car up to a house that had several other police vehicles around it, including a transit van for the forensic group. Crothers noted the newer models of the cars, compared them to his own station’s older collection, and wondered where the money had come from.

  A small man in a pale orange sweatshirt and tan trousers was being very animated in front of a bored-looking uniformed constable. He waved a sheaf of papers at the officer, who took a moment before slowly replying. This threw accelerant on whatever fire was under the other man, whose face became a shade of deep red that spread up into his receding hairline. He barked something to which the constable reacted immediately by standing taller and frowning heavily. A line had been crossed and the frantic man took several steps backwards and put his hands together in front of his chest.

  Crothers and Mills got out of the car and approached the confrontation. The constable glanced in their direction, and the lines on his face flattened.

  “This is the Inspector,” he said sharply. “You should watch how you talk to him too.”

  “Ah, oh,” stammered the small man as he turned to DI Mills. “Ah, thank you, ah, constable.”

  Switching hands with his papers, he extended one in the direction of Mills who looked at it for a moment, looked into the man’s face, and just as the moment was becoming uncomfortable, shook the hand.

  “Inspector, I am, ah, Matthew Buchan. I, ah, I, uh, liaise with MizzenMount for the residents.”

  He threw a half-hearted smile at Mills, who nodded in a noncommittal manner.

  “Someone asked me to, uh, get these codes, ah, for the gate.”

  “Great. They’ll be very helpful.” Mills reached forward and took the papers from Matthew, without them being offered to him.

  Mills turned towards Crothers and nodded faintly while Matthew Buchan waited, confused as to whether he should stay or leave. Crothers stepped up to him and ended his quandary.

  “How do you know Jonathan Carstairs?” He gave himself no introduction and the question was abrupt enough to startle Matthew Buchan.

  “I, uh, Jonathan? I, uh, he’s a resident here.” Matthew’s eyes darted between Crothers and Mills, who had wandered over to the berated constable.

  “We know that,” said Crothers, his tone one of irritation. “When did you last see him?”

  “See him? Oh, uh, at the last resident meeting, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “Yes yes, it was then. I remember distinctly now. It was, uh, most unpleasant.”

  “Unpleasant? When was this meeting?”

  Crothers neatly pulled a notebook from his pocket without taking his gaze from Matthew. He flipped it open and wrote without looking. Matthew stared at the book quickly before meeting Crothers’ gaze again. Several beads of sweat had sprouted on his forehead even in the chilly breeze.

  “Last week. Uh, we had a bit of a… ah, heated, uh, discussion.”

  “Indeed,” said Crothers with interest. “About?”

  “Jonathan came to tell us that, as he was, uh, the liquidator for MizzenMount, that he had, ah, decided to sell to a local developer.” As he spoke, Matthew’s voice became less hesitant, and his body became more animated again. “I told him that all the creditors would be paid soon and that wouldn’t be, ah, necessary. But he wouldn’t listen. He kept saying it was in the best interest of everyone and we got quite loud about it. Finally, he stormed out. I’ve been doing everything I can to stop this sale ever since.”

  Crothers raised an eyebrow at Matthew, who was too busy waving his arms and muttering under his breath to notice.

  “Did anyone threaten Jonathan at the meeting, or after?”

  The hand flapping stopped, and Matthew stared directly into Crothers' face as the sweat beads multiplied.

  “Who, uh, who, ah, who told you?”

  “Answer the question.” There was a stern edge to Crothers' voice as he watched the suddenly calm man.

  “Uh, I did. I, ah, told him that, ah, he was going to regret this if, ah, this was the last thing I, oh, did.”

  M
atthew bit his bottom lip and let his eyes grow wide.

  “I didn’t do anything to the house though,” he said quickly. “That’s why all the police are here. Someone did something to it?”

  Crothers remained quiet and just stared, letting Matthew’s mind do all the work.

  “Oh God,” said Matthew breathily. “Oh God, is Jonathan…” His eyes tracked to the house. “Oh God.”

  “No,” replied Crothers. “Though he is missing, and we’re looking at who might have had an interest in aiding his disappearance.”

  “You don’t think I…”

  “You really should finish important sentences,” said Crothers. “But yes, you’re on that list. Don’t leave the area without letting us know.”

  Crothers scribbled a doodle in the notebook, slapped it shut and turned his back on Matthew Buchan, whose face had drained of colour while his sweat beads had joined together to run tracks down his forehead.

  Mills met Crothers at the car and leaned over the bonnet to say:

  “That poor fella is going to need some darker trousers after that.”

  They both climbed into the car and began to exchange information.

  Chapter 5

  The drab red brick building of the Urban Development and Planning Office receded into Diane’s rear-view mirror. Monique sat primly in the passenger seat, hands folded on her lap, staring directly ahead through the windscreen.

  Albert’s voice came slightly distorted from the speakers in the car.

  “Not a sausage.”

  “You’re sure?” Diane flipped an indicator and merged onto a quiet road.

  “I’ve taken Rufus out twice so far for a walk around the block. I didn’t think he could frown at me any more than he already did, but he’s doing it. Anyway, nothing has changed, and I’ve had my binoculars out, looking through the bedroom window.”

  “Hopefully the neighbours don’t report you for twitching the net curtains,” chuckled Diane.

  “Seeing old Ronny Larkin in his skivvies would be punishment enough. My eyes are burning at just the thought.”

  “That is not a mental image I need,” chided Diane. “Well keep a good lookout. We can never be too sure.”

  “Have no fear, Rufus is on the case!” Albert paused briefly before becoming more serious. “Any luck finding the developer?”

  “Yes, we’ve got a good lead. They had applied for construction permits for the estate already. That means they must have been awfully certain about getting the property. There’s a lot of money in this too.”

  “Nothing good comes from lots of money being involved.”

  Diane frowned at Albert’s insensitivity and glanced over at Monique, who seemed to not have noticed.

  “So what’s the plan?” said Albert.

  “We’re heading to see the head of Shrewsbury Resort Development Company now, Eddie Tomkins. The planning office was able to tell us a current project they’re working on.”

  “Be careful,” said Albert, the concern evident in his voice. “Do you want me to call Inspector Crothers?”

  “No, not unless we get something solid. Just keep a watch on the house, and I’ll call you when we get done.”

  Albert confirmed his vigilance was undiminished and repeated his warning to Diane to be careful before ringing off.

  The car lapsed into silence for a short while during the ride to the construction site. Monique seemed focused on whatever was passing through her mind while Diane concentrated on the increasing traffic.

  After passing several signs for “Trucks Turning” and “Work Entrance Ahead”, there was an even larger sign blaring “Shropshire Resort Development Company” with a backdrop of sun-soaked bathers around a crystal pool surrounded by white Grecian columns. Diane sighed at the clichés contained in the sign. Anyone who knew Britain knew that sunny days like that were few enough to make the scene a beautiful dream.

  The construction site was surrounded by a tall sheet metal fence that was itself contained within a cordon of chain-link fence. A gate had been pulled aside to allow a large lorry with a load of gravel to enter. Diane slipped in behind, partially hidden in the billowing cloud of orange dust that trailed the lorry.

  She stopped the car outside of a large white building that looked official. The side had another large company label while the door was covered in several signs warning anyone that entered to remove their boots and hardhat, please be quiet, no food, and to knock before entering.

  Beyond the cabin steel struts protruded from concrete and beams spanned areas between. Scaffolding rose from several areas, and objects were being lifted manually or by a pulley in several places. Workers bustled everywhere, looking like ants scouring the bones of a metal dinosaur.

  A knuckle rapped on the driver’s window, and Diane rolled it down an inch. A sour-faced man with a poorly-fitting toupee above small round eyes squinted through the gap. A thick moustache covered the upper of a pair of thin lips while a nose that had clearly once been broken scrunched upward.

  “You’re not allowed ‘ere.” The man had placed his mouth over the gap in the window. “Private property.”

  Diane looked at the eyes that had reappeared at the gap and blinked slowly, letting the lenses of her glasses exaggerate the movement.

  “Oh, is it?”

  “Yeah, Private. Don't you see the sign?”

  Diane adjusted her glasses, implying that seeing anything clearly was a happy coincidence.

  “My daughter, she is here to see her young man. Doesn’t he work here?

  The eyes appeared in the gap again and looked past Diane at Monique.

  “You ain’t allowed ‘ere.”

  “But we came all the way from MizzenMount to see him.”

  At the mention of the housing company, the beady eyes shot to Diane and fixed her in an uncomfortable gaze.

  “It’s okay, Mr. Tomkins,” said Monique, attempting to relieve the tension. “My mother is trying to help me out.”

  “So you’re Eddie Tomkins,” said Diane as she opened her car door, forcing Mr. Tomkins to take a swift step backwards or get another kink in his nose.

  “Who are you?” Tomkins stepped up to Diane as she rose from the car seat. “I don’t know none of you.”

  “We’re looking for my daughter’s young man,” repeated Diane. “You know him, I believe. Jonathan Carstairs.”

  “Who?” There was an attempt to sound ignorant, which Diane thought should have been easier for him to achieve.

  “Jonathan Carstairs. He lives at the MizzenMount property that you want to buy.”

  “That’s business. I don’t discuss business with strangers. You need to leave.”

  “We were just wondering how the buyout was going.”

  Eddie stared at Diane and made no reply except to wave to someone over Diane’s shoulder. She knew she was running out of time.

  “Jonathan Carstairs has gone missing. Do you know anything about that?”

  “I don’t know nothing about it. And you need to quit pokin’ your nose in, lady.” Eddie tapped his nose with a thick finger. “Accidents can ‘appen. Keep out of business that ain’t yours, if you know what’s good for ya.”

  A large heavy hand landed on Diane’s shoulder, and Eddie shifted his gaze above and beyond Diane to the hand-wielder.

  “Get ‘em out of ‘ere.” Eddie turned on his heel and started to walk away as the hand gripped firmly on Diane.

  “So you don’t know where he is?” yelled Diane as her last attempt to question Eddie Tomkins.

  “I don’t know nothin’,” Eddie said over his shoulder. “Would be better for you if you know nothin’ too.”

  The hand guided Diane down and into the car seat, closing the door for her. A broad pair of trousers stood at the window and waited while Eddie moved off into the metal framework, picking up a hardhat from a wheelbarrow.

  Diane started the engine and pulled slowly away from her guard, turning to the gate.

  “He wasn’t much help,
was he,” said Monique, sounding defeated.

  Pausing at the gate, Diane looked at Monique, who was looking at her hands folded in her lap.

  “No… no he wasn’t.”

  “He threatened you though. That’s important. He sounds like a dangerous man to mess with.”

  “Maybe,” said Diane, her mind starting to play with the conversation, trying to pull out the critical pieces. Was this reaction important? Or those words?

  “You think Jonathan was mixed up with him?”

  “He knew your husband,” affirmed Diane. “But how? That’s the question.”

  Monique cringed and rubbed her hands together.

  “Jonathan, what did you get yourself into?” She sank into silence and stared sadly at the dashboard of the car.

  A blink of dirty white t-shirt in her rear-view mirror announced to Diane that her guard was coming to help her off the site again. She drove through the gate in her own feeble cloud of dust and out onto the road.

  “Let’s head home and see what the Inspectors have uncovered,” said Diane, who was quickly becoming distracted by her own thoughts.

  Chapter 6

  “Anything on the gate codes?” asked Crothers. Mills had been poring over the pages given to him by Matthew Buchan, and he was holding two of them side by side.

  “It’s a blur of numbers and dates and timestamps, but I think I’ve got the last couple of days here for comparison. It looks like Mrs. Carstairs was telling the truth about when she arrived home. You see, here and here.” He leaned over and placed the two documents against the centre of the dashboard with his thumbs next to one entry on each sheet. “Her usual time for arriving home was around 6pm, except for last night when their code wasn’t used at all until late in the evening. You see, around 10pm.”

  “She did tell me that she went to the station later in the evening to make sure he wasn’t sitting there waiting for her to arrive. Maybe with the surprise he got for her.”

  Mills grunted derisively.

  “She’s not a bright spark, is she? He’d have walked home before then.”