Gone Too Soon

by Scott Hunter

Tess glanced at DC Collingworth. The detective’s face was composed, concentrating hard. From Lockhart’s attitude it was obvious that she viewed the unscheduled arrival of two junior-ranking detectives as a loss of kudos. Where were the senior officers?

  ‘What I’m asking, Ms Lockhart,’ Tess continued, ‘is whether you’ve had any problems in the cemetery? You know, kids mucking about, any trouble at all?’

  ‘Graves disturbed?’ Collingworth added. ‘Headstones vandalised, that kind of thing.’

  Lockhart paused, toyed with her biro. They were sitting at her desk in the church office, a fastidiously neat and tidy environment. The paraphernalia of ecclesiastical management lay in ordered piles on the bureau, the bookshelves groaning under the weight of hymn books, books of common prayer, Bibles and other Anglican tomes – some bearing the marks of antiquity in their ornate bindings, others with mysteriously plain spines. Harmonious voices wafted along the adjoining corridor; the choir were being put through their paces by Lockhart’s colleague.

  ‘There was something, now you mention it. A few months back.’ Lockhart tapped her biro on the desktop. ‘We’d just buried a local JP – a well-respected one too, I might add. And two days later, Tony noticed that the earth had been disturbed. Well, more than disturbed. Dug up. The coffin had been exposed and opened. And – I remember this well because the daughter had specifically requested it – the deceased’s collection of gold figurines that had been laid to rest with the body was missing.’

  ‘Grave robbers?’ Collingworth was incredulous. ‘In 2019?’

  ‘We must assume so, yes.’

  ‘Did you report it?’ Tess asked.

  Lockhart winced. ‘I wanted to, but Tony thought it best not to make a fuss. Bad publicity for the church and so on.’

  ‘Seriously? Did you inform the relatives?’

  ‘Again, no.’ Lockhart toyed with the crucifix, embarrassment etched on her face like the embossed titles of the holy books. ‘Should have done, really, I suppose. But Gruffydd tidied everything up and we haven’t had any problems since. Well, specifically, we haven’t had any further problems.’

  ‘What do you mean, exactly?’ Collingworth was jotting notes. ‘It’s best if you tell us anything that might be relevant. Did you mention this to DI Pepper?’

  Tess glanced at her colleague. Collingworth was a good-looking guy: chiselled jaw, perma-six o’clock shadow, blue eyes. Married, unfortunately. Two young kids. Ah, well…

  ‘Not specifically,’ Lockhart replied sheepishly. ‘I didn’t think it important at the time. Ms LaCroix’s murder is surely the priority?’

  The choir struck up again. And did those feet, in ancient times…

  ‘It’s not a murder case yet, Ms Lockhart,’ Tess said, ‘and any information regarding the cemetery is potentially relevant.’

  ‘Yes. Of course. I do apologise.’

  ‘So, what problems exactly?’ Collingworth prompted.

  ‘Well, we wondered – Tony and myself – whether someone was keeping an eye on deaths and funeral services with a view to targeting potentially wealthy burials.’ Lockhart cleared her throat. ‘I met a colleague from an associated church last week, at our monthly meeting. St Andrew’s, in Tidmarsh. Do you know it?’

  Tess shook her head. The last time she’d been in a church was for her grandfather’s funeral two years back. He’d died a painful death so, as far as Tess was concerned, God had a lot to answer for; church attendance wasn’t high on her agenda. But Collingworth nodded.

  ‘Yep. I know it. The one with the Norman tower. Near the Greyhound Inn.’

  ‘Yes, that’s it. Well, Julie – the Reverend Julie Palmer, that is – was telling me about something which had happened that very week. A wealthy chap from Sonning had died suddenly. He was a millionaire several times over. Anyway, in his will he’d expressed a desire to be buried in Tidmarsh, where he was born. Julie took the funeral, which was well attended; he’d been quite the philanthropist during his life, you see, and people wanted to pay their respects.’

  ‘Go on,’ Tess prompted again. This was getting interesting. She felt a tingle of excitement.

  The choir launched into the last verse of Jerusalem and ground to a sudden halt; Tony was evidently a hard taskmaster.

  ‘Well,’ Lockhart continued, ‘Julie called me a week later, and guess what? The millionaire’s grave had been desecrated. The coffin lid had been forced. The thing is, Julie distinctly remembers that the deceased had been wearing a Rolex watch. It was missing from the corpse’s wrist.’

  ‘Unbelievable.’ Collingworth shook his head. ‘How sick are these guys?’

  ‘The same sick guys, though, surely?’ Tess said. ‘Opportunists, chancers. Whatever you want to call them. It’s highly likely that the same person, or persons, are responsible for your JP’s exhumation.’

  ‘But we haven’t had any trouble since, though, that’s the funny thing,’ Lockhart said. ‘Until yesterday.’

  ‘They could be moving around the parishes,’ Tess said, ‘checking upcoming funerals, finding out if the recently deceased are ordinary folk, or if they might have a quid or two.’

  ‘But I still don’t see–’ Lockhart frowned.

  ‘Not to worry, Ms Lockhart.’ Tess stood up and Collingworth followed suit. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘If they’re operating in this area again they may well have been snooping around when LaCroix was buried,’ Collingworth said. ‘As Moran suggested, they could have witnessed the whole thing. Waited, dug the body up.’ He shrugged.

  ‘It’s ‘the guv’ to you, OK?’ Tess wasn’t smiling.

  ‘Right. Noted.’ Collingworth wore a mixed expression, half-annoyed, half amused.

  ‘So how do you suggest we find these witnesses?’ Tess rummaged in her glove box, found what she was looking for.

  ‘Headache?’ Collingworth enquired as Tess swigged a tablet down with a gulp of water.

  ‘I’m fine. It’s nothing. You drive, I’ll think.’

  ‘Okaaaay–’ He dragged the last vowel out to twice its length, eased the car into second and pulled away. In the rear view he saw Lockhart standing by St Swithun’s main entrance, hands busy, as always, with the chain and crucifix.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.’

  ‘No worries.’ Collingworth produced one of his easy, film-star smiles. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Understand what, exactly?’

  ‘Well, you know, you’ve had a bad time.’

  ‘I said I’m fine. I meant it.’

  ‘Right. Sure. Anyway, about the grave robbers. Why not lay some bait? Let them come to us?’

  Tess felt her heartbeat quieten. Collingworth hadn’t meant anything by his question. He wasn’t to know how things were – the nightmares, the shaking, the insomnia. How could he? He hadn’t been shot, nearly blown up. He was young, keen. And good-looking, damn him.

  Tess snapped her water bottle shut. ‘Good idea. Not just a pretty face then, DC Collingworth.’

  ‘There’s only one pretty face in this car, and it’s not mine.’ Collingworth kept his eyes on the road, overtook a parked lorry. ‘And it’s ‘Chris’ to you, if you like.’

  Tess felt her mouth soundlessly open and shut. She angled herself towards the side window, drank some more water, watched the shoppers scurry by.

  Mind on the job, Tess…

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘We lost her years ago, that’s the truth.’

  Charlie nodded. It was a familiar story of adoption, acculturation, adolescence, alienation. Michelle’s adopted father looked worn out, his wife not much better. Years of tedious applications, waiting, hoping, then the intrusion of assessments, inspections and finally fruition – a baby was available. Were they interested? Yes, absolutely – and for a while, all was well. And then bang. Michelle hit fourteen and the world changed.

  ‘She was such a lovely little girl,’ her mother was saying. ‘Always a ready smile. Loved to help in the kitchen. We used to m
ake biscuits and cakes together.’ Her face crumpled as the memories faded and the present reclaimed her attention. ‘And now you tell me that Michelle is dead.’ She reached for her husband’s hand, only to withdraw it abruptly to dab a handkerchief to her eyes.

  The husband made a gesture signifying futility. What could he do, or say, to change things?

  ‘Tell me how she was, when she got to her teens, Mr LaCroix.’ Charlie spoke softly.

  ‘You can call me Maurice, it’s fine.’ LaCroix smiled sadly and patted his weeping wife on the shoulder as if he were placating the family Labrador. There was a slight trace of accent in the geometry of the vowels which Charlie couldn’t quite place. French or Belgian, but with traces of Russian, perhaps?

  ‘She was always musical,’ the wife broke in between sobs. ‘Playing the piano and singing all the time with her lovely voice.’

  ‘She has many admirers,’ Charlie said. ‘And her music will live on. You should be proud of her.’

  ‘I am. Always we are proud, aren’t we Maurice?’ She held her head aloft, trembling with the effort of bringing her emotions under control.

  ‘So, did she have many friends?’

  ‘Not friends we liked, no. She mixed with the wrong ones, always.’

  ‘Not always, Françoise.’ Maurice LaCroix corrected his wife gently. ‘Just later, when she was older.’

  ‘Yes, these friends–’ Françoise almost spat the word, ‘they took her away from us. From the only ones who truly loved her, gave her a life.’

  ‘Did she live at home during her teens, or–’

  ‘Hah! If only. She was away, always. Never telling us where. Never at school, she would come back only for money. Then – pouf – gone again for weeks.’

  ‘It must have been hard.’ Charlie smiled sympathetically. ‘But it’s not uncommon. Girls can get wild when they reach a certain age.’ Sounds familiar, a small voice reminded her …

  ‘I want to see her,’ Françoise said. ‘I want to see my baby.’

  ‘Of course,’ Charlie said. ‘I can arrange that–’

  ‘Now. I want to see her now–’

  ‘Françoise.’ Maurice’s arm was around his wife’s shoulders. ‘We must follow the protocols. DI Pepper will do everything that is necessary.’

  ‘Is there anything, anyone you think might have been involved in what happened?’ Charlie asked. ‘Michelle told us – left a message – that she’d found someone to help her to…’ Charlie searched for a softer word, but Mr LaCroix stepped in to help her out.

  ‘Kill herself? No, we know of nobody who would agree to such a thing. But then…’ He shrugged in that expressive, European manner which conveyed so much. ‘We had lost touch with Michelle. I fear that we cannot provide you with a list of her close friends, nor even her casual acquaintances.’

  ‘That’s OK, don’t worry. My officers will be speaking to them all in due course. Thank you both for your time.’ Charlie slid her card across the desk. ‘Call me anytime, if you remember anything you think might help our investigation; even if it seems trivial. I’ve asked the family liaison officer to contact you. She’s very nice. I think you’ll find talking to her helpful.’ Charlie smiled. ‘I’ll get someone to show you out – I’ll be in touch very soon. That’s a promise.’

  Charlie finished her summary and braced herself as the room erupted into a barrage of questions. She homed in on one waving arm, vaguely recognising the guy as one of the less irritating journos.

  ‘Yes, with the brown jacket?’

  ‘Is it true that Michelle left a suicide note? Can you tell us what it said?’

  ‘Michelle dictated a voice message onto CD. I can’t make the contents public at this stage of the investigation, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Come on!’ A shout from the other side of the room. ‘It can’t all be confidential! Was it murder or suicide?’

  ‘As I said, while the investigation is in its early stages, I’m not at liberty to disclose any potentially sensitive material.’

  Another shout, this time from front and centre. ‘How sensitive? Did Michelle name anyone in her recording? Give any reason she wanted to kill herself?’

  ‘We’re still trying to establish the precise circumstances leading up to Ms LaCroix’s death. There’ll be more information in a day or so.’ Charlie felt her pulse accelerating. She was conscious of DCS Higginson’s presence next to her, calm and centred as usual, uniform scrupulously pressed. She moistened her lips. The stomach cramps which had kept her awake during the night were back, nagging away. Not painful, but irritating enough to distract her, put her off her stride.

  ‘Grave digger said she’d lost a finger. Can you comment?’

  Familiar voice. Jones. Charlie bristled. ‘All in good time, Ms Jones. That’s it for today. Thank you for your time.’ She stood and for a moment the room swam in and out of focus. The noise level went up a notch as the journalists expressed their frustration. She turned her back, made for the exit.

  The door closed behind her and shut the noise out. Higginson was at her side. ‘Rowdy lot. You handled them well.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘How’s progress? Early stages, I appreciate, but you can see how much of a fuss this whole thing is making. Big fish, the young lady. Lot of interest.’

  ‘I’m aware, sir.’

  ‘DCI Moran is available for any advice, should you feel–’

  ‘Yes, sir. I know. He’s already been very helpful.’

  ‘I’m sure. But this one’s yours, Charlie, lets be clear.’ Higginson gave her that look, the one which made her feel like a teenage schoolgirl. ‘I’m sure you won’t let the side down.’

  ‘No, sir. Of course not.’

  ‘Very good. Carry on.’

  The ladies room was unoccupied and Charlie breathed a prayer of thanks. She looked at herself in the mirror. Pale, clammy skin. Her stomach growled again, and then, without any warning, it yawed. She doubled over, retched. Nothing came.

  She bent to the tap and swigged water. Faced the mirror, squared her shoulders. Her reflection had gained a little colour.

  Stress, that’s all, Charlie girl, just stress.

  The man watched the procession with detached interest. Not a funeral, a committal. He could see the verger holding the urn of ashes, the remnants of a life, as though cradling a small, precious child. He looked down at his feet, checked his holdall was still there. Yes, of course. Always there.

  The man lit a cigarette and drew in the pungent smoke as the muted prayers of the verger were answered by low Amens. With his free hand he dropped the cheap bunch of flowers he’d bought at the motorway service station onto a nearby grave as the mourners filed slowly past. No one gave him a second glance. He was just another mourner, a tall man in a grey coat with a complexion to match, no doubt grieving over a departed spouse or lover. He could hang around for a bit longer without arousing suspicion. In the corner plot, the forensics team were winding up for the day. It was easy to keep tabs, to watch their comings and goings, get a feel for what they were up to and what they may or may not have found.

  He’d received the call that morning, after the newspaper headlines had been noted. His superiors had been unhappy, and he could understand that. He took pride in his work, and to be told by others that he had slipped up left a bitter taste in his mouth, which could only be cleansed by quick remedial action. And that was exactly what he had promised to deliver. He hadn’t shared his concerns at the time, namely that he had no idea at all who might have had the temerity to rob LaCroix’s grave. But the press had obligingly provided several clues. First he was dealing with petty thieves – opportunists, and probably stupid ones at that. Second the police were understood to be searching for LaCroix’s missing ring. If they found the ring, they would also obtain a description of the seller – ergo a witness to his crime. That could not be allowed, even if the risk was low; his appearance rarely stayed the same for more than a day at a time, and sometimes, particularly during an assi
gnment, not even that. His expertise in this area was one of the reasons his employers paid him so well.

  Still, a loose end was just that, and would have to be tied off.

  He lit another cigarette as the car park thinned out and the mourners and supporting cast departed, dark saloons purring away into the late afternoon sun. The man picked up his holdall and made his way slowly along the path, head bowed in apparent grief and contemplation.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ‘No prints on the woodwork, I’m afraid,’ Moran said, watching for Charlie’s reaction. ‘No abrasions, marks, clothing threads. Nothing.’

  ‘Right.’ Charlie sighed. The IR was filling up, the team gathering noisily with coffees, notepads and the usual banter. She felt a pang of envy. It would be great to be just part of the team, one of the boys. But she’d worked hard for promotion, and won it on merit. The last twelve months had challenged her again and again, but there was no let-up in sight. The LaCroix case had ensured that the stakes were now higher than ever.

  And time was marching on. Moran must have sensed what she was thinking because he beamed a warm smile of encouragement. ‘Something’ll turn up,’ he said. ‘Just a case of keeping the pressure on.’ He jerked a thumb at the assembled officers. ‘They’re a good lot. Plenty of brain power. Let’s use it.’

  Encouraged by Moran’s use of the plural, Charlie turned to face them.

  ‘Morning everyone. OK, here’s where we are. Forensics first.’ She turned to the whiteboard. ‘Number one, an earring. Unusual. Ivory inlay. Not Michelle’s. No identifying marks. Grab the photo afterwards, show it to all interviewees – it’s the biggest clue we’ve got. The coffin was clean, no prints. Same for Michelle’s clothing. No foreign DNA. Someone was very, very careful. I’ll cover pathology in a sec, but first DCI Moran has an update on Michelle’s recording.’

  Charlie moved aside to let Moran take the floor.

  ‘Top of the morning to you all.’ Moran surveyed the room. ‘No breakthroughs yet, I’m afraid. Forensics have been over the Earls Court flat and all I can tell you is that an audio file from Michelle’s personal laptop appears to be the file from which the CD recording was burned. The audio is still being analysed. It’s Michelle’s voice, no doubt about that. Some external background noises will require enhancement. It seems like a pukka confession – at this moment in time.’ He emphasised the word. ‘But as you’re all aware, things can change, so make no assumptions. There are also two scheduled social media posts regarding the posthumously-intended new song release, one for Twitter and one Facebook. Both were scheduled via Hootsuite to post exactly a month from the day Michelle was buried. The posts also reveal the precise location of her grave. These posts appear to be Michelle’s work, rather than her media team’s.’