Early family life was spent in Longridge near Preston. Mr. Crawford had been an aircraft technician at an R.A.F. base at Samlesbury, but his death from cancer changed their lives completely. His wife decided to leave their rented accommodation to live closer to her own mother in Cheshire. Using the insurance money from her husband's death, she purchased the cottage in Moulton and eked out a living from the modest pension that she received from her late husband's pension fund. Unfortunately, the grandmother died shortly after they moved south and the family, alone in a strange area, became somewhat introverted.
Lara eventually escaped into the world outside by starting work against her mother's wishes at the fashion boutique in Winsford, where she became involved with a young assistant manager, Andy Davenport. Diana also confirmed that she was unaware of her daughter's pregnancy and her intended abortion. During their informal chat, Massey became aware of Mrs. Crawford's intense dislike and mistrust of Lara's young man, but despite guiding the discussion in that direction, he was unable to fathom why.
By the end of the journey, Massey, though having a clearer picture of Lara as a person and her recent lifestyle, was no nearer to a motive for her murder. In his mind, the enquiry so far was yielding very little. Neither the interview with Fiona nor the dialogue with Lara's mother cast any light on the possible source of the caustic smell or the metal fragments. Their original thoughts that they could perhaps be attributed to the workplace had most certainly been scotched. Most importantly they were no nearer to the identity of a possible suspect. Was her death merely a random attack on a young defenceless girl?
Before dropping Diana Crawford at her cottage in Moulton, their final duty was to visit the mortuary, where she could formally identify her daughter. Once again, Massey was surprised by the lack of emotion displayed by Lara's mother. Her calm acceptance played on his mind and would continue to occupy his thoughts until an explanation could resolve his dilemma.
*****
A single place setting for breakfast had been laid up on a small table in a side room off the main bar area of the Barleycorn. Jimmy Moran entered from the door marked PRIVATE. There was an eerie stillness in contrast to the noise and disturbance of the previous day's final bank holiday festivities.
A cleaner appeared, resolutely ploughing her furrow through the debris of a busy night's trading. Her downbeat expression conveyed her feelings towards the unenviable task that lay ahead of her. The sight of the smartly dressed, handsome stranger stopped her in her tracks.
“You'd better sit yerself down in there,” she said coughing through the haze of smoke from her well-chewed roll-up. She indicated the small dining area. “I'll give ‘im a shout.”
Moran found the ‘table for one’ and sat alongside the window, giving him a view of the main road and the main area of the pub through the open doorway. It was no deliberate action to choose that position at the table but merely an instinctive impulse through years of self-preservation as a belligerent Republican. After a couple of minutes, Sean, the licensee, appeared in the doorway.
“Sleep well? Sorry about the noise. I forgot about the live music when I checked you in.”
“Not to worry. It was entertaining and I had some reading to be catching up on.”
“Cooked breakfast? Tea or coffee?”
“I'm famished. Give me the works with a pot of strong tea.”
Sean tossed him a morning paper. “Something more to read while you're waiting.” He disappeared to cook his guest's breakfast.
Moran picked up the copy of the Sun newspaper, which carried the headline ‘TV STAR'S 3 IN A BED ROMP’. However, his eyes were drawn towards a more insignificant headline ‘MYSTERY BLONDE DUMPED’. He read the article and flicked through the other pages until Sean returned with his cooked breakfast.
“See you've got a local murder hunt in full swing,” he remarked. “That should keep the coppers tied up for some time. It'll make it easier for our little operation to go un-noticed.”
Sean nodded in the realisation that Jimmy Moran had already made up his mind. He accepted the inevitable. “When do you want the rooms?” he asked after placing the ‘full English’ in front of him.
“Jesus, that looks good,” said Moran, admiring the mountain of fried food. He cut open a sausage, stabbed a piece of bacon, dipped both in the yolk of an egg and shovelled the greasy forkful into his mouth. “Start next week,” he muttered through the food. “Keep all eight rooms free until further notice. You will be well in pocket, Sean. If anyone gets suspicious or asks about them, just say it's a block booking by some cultural studies group.”
“So, are you going to tell me who these guys are?”
“Like I said…students. They're young lads from different areas of the country, some from the north, some from the midlands and some from the south. You don't worry yourself now. Enjoy and take the money. Any real problems, contact me.”
He passed a small hand-written card to Sean. “You can reach me on that number any time, day or night. It'll be a breeze. Keep one room free. I'll be dropping in from time to time and staying over. Oh, make sure it's en-suite. I don't like sharing a bog.”
Some breeze, thought Sean. As he left the upbeat Irishman to devour the remainder of his breakfast, he reflected on the proverb ‘It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good’.
*****
D.C.I. Wainwright leaned back in his chair. “Now that the family have been informed, I'm issuing a statement to the media at ten thirty this morning. I hope that the publicity will jog someone's memory. If we can pinpoint the exact time she left home and caught the bus into town, I wouldn't be averse to doing a reconstruction.”
“That's if she caught the bus, as her friend stated,” said Massey.
“Maybe the bus driver could confirm that. Let's face it; she was a bit of a ‘head-turner’. Somebody must have noticed her.”
“I'll check with the bus company and find out who was rostered on that route on Thursday morning. If we arrange a recon, how far do we run with it?”
“How do you mean?”
“According to her friend, Fiona, she was heading eventually for Northwich. If she took the local service from Moulton, she would have to get off at the Square and walk down High Street to the bus station or wait for a connection at the bus stop over the bridge. If she was intercepted en route, was it at that point or did she make the connection to be snatched on arrival at Northwich or later still between the terminus there and the clinic?”
“If the incident occurred at Northwich, I can't see any logic in dumping her back here. I suggest we run a recon from her house to the bus station, when we have specific times confirmed.”
“I'll get the team out again. Now the bank holiday's over we can pick up what was missed over the weekend. According to forensics, the cottage was clean, so it'll be house to house along the route you suggested. Bear in mind there is also the possibility that she got a lift with someone.”
“We can squash that with any witnesses, especially the bus driver. What are you doing about the boyfriend?”
“Apparently he's still holidaying with his friends in Spain. D. S. Roker is checking that out. I still feel it was opportunist. No prime suspect, no motive apart from the pregnancy. But according to her friend, Fiona Wilson, no-one else was privy to her condition, not even the boyfriend.”
“What about other relationships?”
“Again, Wilson was adamant that she was not one to sleep around. Therefore, it would be highly improbable that she had been involved with anyone else.”
“Well, if it wasn't premeditated it's likely that mistakes were made and there's always the chance of some evidence turning up, particularly if we can establish the location of the actual crime scene.”
Massey left Wilkinson's office deep in thought. He decided to check with Nuttall again. He was pleased to learn that there was some additional news.
“I've examined the clothing which you brought in. As you guessed, the various items carried that peculiar smell, toget
her with those same traces of a caustic substance. However, the dress was stained particularly on the rear, suggesting that she was possibly in a sitting position when she came into contact with whatever the substance was.”
“Not on her back, then?” asked Massey, thinking about the possible rape scenario.
“Difficult to say. There were some traces on the shoulders.”
“So, if she was raped, it's likely that she wasn't lying down in this stuff at that point?”
“Taking account of the bruise on her head, I would imagine that she either fell down or was knocked down, landed in this caustic solution or whatever and was probably rendered unconscious. I'm basing my theory on the supposition that she was exposed to it at that point. Whether she was raped before or afterwards is a matter for conjecture at this stage.”
“But you still maintain that the blow to the head wasn't the cause of death?”
“I believe she was suffocated. There's no evidence to suggest otherwise.”
Massey paced the room, trying to imagine a likely scenario. “She's obviously arrived somewhere shortly after leaving home where she's come into contact with her killer. As you say, it's probable that is where she picked up these strange substances. The annoying fact is that I know that smell, but I cannot recollect from where. Could it have been in someone's workshop?”
Nuttall considered the inspector's remark. “You may not be far out. It could be a workshop or industrial premises. Is there anything of that ilk en route?”
“Not as far as we know,” said Massey. “We have a young girl leaving home early one morning on her way to have an abortion. She catches a bus and ends up in a factory? It doesn't make sense.”
“Maybe you're barking up the wrong tree. Perhaps she picked up the chemical traces from her assailant.”
“We'll just have to check out all the premises along that route. Any news on the D.N.A.?”
“Should have the results back tomorrow, Thursday at the latest. On the other hand, it could be next week. It takes time and there could be a back log because of Easter.”
Massey was frustrated. Still no suspect, still no motive and the only forensic evidence indicated a most unlikely scenario. He decided to visit Chic-Chat. Maybe the boutique manager could throw some light on the situation.
He despatched Turner and Jones to check which non-domestic premises were situated on Lara's probable route into town. He had asked Roker to interview the Davenports about their son's holiday arrangements and the rest of the team, together with a few spare uniformed officers, were assigned to conducting house-to-house enquiries.
Before he left the office, the inspector asked one of the station clerks to contact the bus company to acquire a list of drivers who were on duty during the early hours of Thursday morning. With everyone committed to some aspect of the case, he set off to question Lara's boss at the boutique in a somewhat more buoyant mood than previously.
*****
Donald Kimberley, the manager of Chic-Chat was as obnoxious as the expression on his face. An apt description would include the words ‘slimy, smug and snobbish’ or, as Massey described him later, ‘full-of-his-own-shit’.
The boutique was situated in the newly opened town centre development, which had been partly financed by reciprocal treasury funding from the overspill intakes. Wedged between an Iceland frozen food shop and Woolworths it also faced a new supermarket. Its ideal positioning boosted its potential and trade was usually quite brisk.
The business belonged to a small regional chain and, though he was only the manager, Donald Kimberley boasted openly that he was the proprietor. Despite pushing almost fifty years of age, he only admitted to being in his early forties. He clad himself in outfits that ridiculed his image by their youthful style and attempted to speak the new wave of jargon currently in vogue by a generation, which was almost young enough to be a product of his own children.
His ‘Just-for-Men’ dyed hair glistened with an unnatural auburn hue under the artificial lighting of the boutique. He reeked of cheap aftershave, which he purchased in bulk from a local cash-and-carry warehouse. Despite its clinging sickly sweet aroma, the powerful fumes failed to mask the dreadful halitosis that emanated from his mouth whenever he breathed conversation.
“I'm Detective Inspector Massey, local C.I.D. I need to speak with you on a matter of urgency,” announced Massey, flashing his warrant card towards Kimberley.
“Can't stop now,” replied the boutique manager, busying himself with a carton of recently delivered denim jeans. “I'm short-staffed, one on holiday, one pregnant and…er…well you obviously know about the other one.”
“Yes, it's Lara Crawford whom I came to discuss with you.” Massey glanced around the empty shop. “You hardly look run-off-your-feet.”
“I need to catch up after the bank holiday. It's all very inconvenient with no staff to help out.”
“The young lady who worked for you has been murdered. If that's inconvenient for you, I'll make it far worse by taking you off to the station for questioning,” retorted the inspector angrily. “It's your choice. Here and now or you close the shop and you leave with me.”
“I know nothing about her murder,” protested Kimberley.
“I said that I came to discuss your employee, not what befell her. Are you going to co-operate or not?”
“I suppose I can spare you a few minutes.”
Massey wondered how a beautiful young girl with modelling aspirations could have possibly agreed to work for such an objectionable man. As Mrs Crawford had explained, her daughter's basic motive for working in the shop was purely financial, but what a price to pay, thought Massey.
“She was a dreamer…you know, a bit scatty.”
“Some of the greatest inventors on the planet were dreamers,” replied Massey, “but one would hardly describe them as scatty, nor is it a reason to be murdered. Why would you say that about her?”
“Well, you know, she had this crazy idea of becoming a model.”
“Surely, she had good reason. She was certainly a stunner.”
“Yeah, but here in this god-forsaken place! Who's going to discover her here?”
“Are you referring to your shop or the town, Mr Kimberley?”
“Well, the town of course. It's full of overspill shit.”
“And where do you hail from?” asked the inspector, knowing already that Donald Kimberley was Manchester born and bred.
“Is that relevant? I thought that you were here to ask about the girl.”
“So, if she was scatty, why did you employ her?”
“Well, she was a bit tasty. She brought the blokes in. They spent loads of money on designer gear, just to impress her. She was always being chatted up.”
“I understand that she had a regular boyfriend, your assistant manager.”
“She was too good for him. She deserved better. I don't know why she wasted her time on him. Andrew was like the rest of them. They all just wanted to get into her knickers.”
“I take it that you disapproved of these young men sniffing round her, apart from the fact that it was good for business?”
“She needed a more mature person, someone to bring her back down to earth. Her father was dead, you see. I think she lacked parental guidance. She needed some stability in her life.”
“Is that how you saw your role, Mr. Kimberley?”
The shop manager turned away and busied himself with the carton of jeans. “I was just her employer.”
“But you still fancied her? Is that why you were jealous of all the attention she received. Did you try it on with her? Did she reject your advances? Did that make you angry, Mr. Kimberley?”
Spilling a pile of denims onto the floor, Donald Kimberley spun round to face the inspector. He trembled as he spoke. “I didn't kill her. Honest, I didn't kill her.”
“Did I accuse you of killing her?” asked Massey. He looked down the shop towards the entrance. “You'd better pull yourself together. You have customers.”
Kimberley looked relieved by the interruption. Massey stepped towards him. “Do you use any caustic cleaning materials here?” he asked.
The boutique manager looked confused. “I don't know,” he stuttered. “You'd have to ask the contract cleaning company.”
“Don't stray far, Mr. Kimberley. We may need to question you again.”
The detective, convinced that the boutique manager was not a suspect, walked towards the exit as a couple of teenagers made their entrance. In a less buoyant mood, Massey headed for his office, hoping that other officers had achieved better results.
*****
After an Easter weekend of unusually mild weather, a depression had settled over the north west of England. The sun had disappeared beyond the clouds and the first spots of rain marred his windscreen as Massey pulled into the rear yard of Winsford police headquarters. He grabbed the sandwich and the Eccles cake, which he had purchased for his working lunch, before meeting up with some of the team to discuss their morning's endeavours.
Roker reported that Andrew Davenport had indeed been in Spain at the time of the murder. Turner and Jones furnished a list of business premises of a more industrial type that Lara may have passed on that fateful morning and, as there was no new information from forensics or from the other team members, they decided that their only option was to focus on any suspect buildings where her journey may have been curtailed.
As most of the team were still involved with house-to-house enquiries, Massey decided to split the visits to the selected businesses between Roker, Turner, Jones and himself. In addition to four public houses, there was a cycle shop, a dry cleaning shop, a hairdressing salon, a garage and a small engineering unit. They considered that these were premises that could possibly use some type of chemical substance.
He spelled out some guidelines. “Initially, ascertain their recollections of Thursday morning, their individual movements and the names of any staff who were working during that period. Focus on what would have been their normal work routines for that particular day. For example, most licensees appear to work to some weekly pattern, governed by opening hours and special events. Remember, however, that this was the day prior to Good Friday, so changes and abnormal adjustments may have been made to their usual working practices. Don't forget to ask each one of them about their procedures for rubbish collection.”
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