Eventually, the woman came into the front of the shop and deftly moved around several large vases with selections of top-heavy flowers to reach the front door. Planting a foot firmly behind the door about two inches from the base, she unlocked and opened the door a sliver. Placing her lips against the crack, she said, “We’re closed.”
Diane, mimicking the shop owner, placed her uninjured foot in the crack of the door.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m not here for flowers. I came to pick up Melissa.”
“Melissa?”
“I’m her aunt, you see. We were going down to the pub across from the bridge for dinner. I’m only in town for a few days, and it seemed a waste not to visit her.”
“She…” The woman withdrew a little from the door, letting the crack widen. Confusion showed on her face. “She didn’t mention you.”
Diane was about to launch into an excuse when the woman continued, “But she’s already gone. I let her out about half an hour ago.”
“Oh,” said Diane. “I waited at her flat, and she hasn’t arrived yet.”
“No, I bet she hasn’t.” There was a sly grin on the florist’s face. “A young gentleman met her outside, and they went off together.”
Diane felt her heart flutter and not in a romantic way, though she continued to smile politely.
“A young man? How odd.”
“Very well-dressed young man too. She had seemed surprised to see him, but he had his arm around her when they left.
“Maybe she forgot, or I have my days confused,” said Diane. “I’m so sorry to have disturbed you. Your store is very delightful.”
The florist smiled at the compliment and wished Diane a lovely evening.
Diane turned quickly as the door closed behind her and climbed back into the car.
“Is everything alright?” asked Monica. She looked at Diane’s face, and something told her it definitely was not.
“I think I know who sent the finger, and murdered that poor girl at the lake.” Diane looked sombrely at the steering wheel. With her phone in one hand, she pulled a piece of paper from her other pocket. “And now he has Melissa.”
♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠
Gary wept when he described his last evening with Shelly. The beautiful dinner, Shelly glowing in the candlelight as the waiter poured champagne. She knew what Gary had planned, he could tell. The smile never left her face all evening. She had probably sensed how nervous Gary was, seen how he had gone to the bathroom every ten minutes to splash cold water on his sweating face. She had laughed at the slightest joke as if it were the greatest joke in the world.
When they had left and gone to the lake, Gary had blindfolded her to conceal the location more than the surprise. He had pulled up before the clearing and rushed out to light all the candles that he had placed earlier that day, and laid out a blanket by the shore. He had led her out of the car, her high heels making her totter as she walked over the uneven ground, though she had giggled all of the way. He had pulled off her blindfold and she had gasped at the sight, trees flickering in the candlelight, the moonlight rippling over the water. The air was still, as if the world was holding its breath.
As he went down on one knee, a tear had run silently down her face. She had looked at Gary with those shining eyes and smiled a nervous, excited, wonderful smile.
“Will you marry me?” he had said as he popped open the ring box.
She didn’t speak at first, though her nodding head betrayed her. With a choke, she had finally said yes, and Gary had pulled the ring from the silk cushion and slid it onto her outstretched finger. He had been rising to kiss her when there was a scream behind them.
“LIAR!”
Gary made to turn, but something heavy hit him on the side of the head. He went down hard and watched through fading eyesight as Shelly turned to run. Her heels became caught in the grass and she fell. A figure in black fell upon her. The last Gary heard was Shelly pleading, sobbing, as the dark figure yelled at her.
“BETRAYER!”
Inspector Crothers took note of everything, pausing to give Gary time to collect himself between bouts of tears. He could hear the love in Gary’s voice, the way that he spoke of Shelly, describing everything about her. The Inspector thought of his wife and the night he had proposed and saw the same things in his wife that Gary had seen in Shelly. His heart ached for them, but the years on the job had given him a stony exterior to hide his emotions from criminal or victim. They only led to complications and distorted his view of the facts. He knew that some saw him as cold, especially the younger constables, though the veterans understood it was as much for the case as to help maintain sanity in a job where dealing with an insane world was the everyday norm
After he had as much detail as Gary could muster, Inspector Crothers left him to be tended by nurses who came in to examine the wounds, the physical ones anyway. He exited the room and with a nod to the constable on guard, left the hospital as quickly as he could.
The moment he stepped through the hissing automatic doors, his phone beeped to indicate he had missed calls. He had not realized the hospital restricted phone coverage to spare interference with the medical devices, and he quickly flipped through the list. Of the several numbers, he recognized one in particular. He felt like ignoring her, deleting his contact with her, even though she had led them to the lake. His finger hovered over the screen as he battled indecision when the phone vibrated and the same number flashed across the screen in large numbers, the Answer or Disconnect icons flashing helpfully.
♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠
“Inspector! Finally, I have gotten through to you. This is urgent. I know who the killer is, and you need to hurry. He has another girl!” Diane’s words tumbled out of her in her haste to get the information where it could do some good.
“What? How?” said the Inspector.
“That’s completely the wrong question right now, Inspector. Who? Who is the question of the moment. And the who is called Jeremy Thurston.”
“How do you know it is this Jeremy Thurston?”
“Well, it’s quite obvious really once we figured out that the finger was not meant for Monica Hope. Oh no no, it was meant for Melissa Hope, a girl that lived in the same building but had only moved in a week ago. She used to work at the Dazzling Jewels store in the shopping centre where the ring was bought. Dear Mr. Wilkins thought her name was Molly, and that led me along a thoroughly useless path, I can tell you.”
The words flowed from Diane, and the Inspector just stood rooted to the spot, only able to listen to the story unfold. He knew better than to interrupt; it was clear Diane would brook no such thing.
“Melissa has been at work all day, so she knew nothing of the finger. Poor Gary and Shelly were only a means to an end for Jeremy. He told me this morning that he didn’t know Monica. Well, of course he didn’t. He knew Melissa, and that’s who the ring was for. He also said he didn’t know who sold the ring to Gary Sandrake, but clearly he must have, otherwise how would he have known where the proposal was going to take place? He must have innocently inquired about it when Gary was buying the ring. So fiendish, he has been. Mr. Wilkins told me that the turnover of female staff had been quite large recently, and there had been some mention of inappropriate behaviour, but no one ever said more than that. I think Jeremy got a bit of a fixation with Melissa and scared her away so that she left her home and moved. Then, one day, Snap! He gets it in his head that he needs to find her and show her what’s what.”
Diane took a breath and the Inspector took this moment to throw a question into the phone.
“So Jeremy has Melissa? She is the other woman?”
“Indeed, Inspector. According to Mr. Wilkins, Jeremy left around lunchtime and didn’t return to work. The owner of the flower shop where Melissa worked saw a man walk away with Melissa about half an hour ago. I bet if she were to see a picture of Jeremy, she would agree.”
“Do you know where they have gone?”
“Not completely Inspector, though Mr. Wilkins was nice enough to give me his address. Do you have a pen?”
“Go ahead,” said the Inspector after rummaging in his jacket pocket.
“Flat 5E, Windsor Garden Towers. It’s a tower block on the way to Hadley. He lives with his mother. She may know where he has gone with the poor girl. He is obviously deeply disturbed, Inspector. I fear for her very life.”
“I’ll send a car round immediately and get over there as quick as I can. I hope you’re wrong Diane. For the girl’s sake, I hope you’re wrong.”
♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠
Sergeant Webster stood at the end of the walkway, a hand on the chilled concrete of the wall. He swivelled his head from the location of the graffitied lift and dim staircase to the door of the flat of Jeremy Thurston. His orders were to keep watch on the area when he arrived and wait for Inspector Crothers before approaching the flat.
“Suspect could be armed and may have a prisoner. All caution should be taken.”
Fingers absently ran the outline of the Velcro strap that held closed his stab-proof vest under his cotton shirt. He’d had his fair share of fights through the years, knives and fists and broken bottles. It wasn’t that he couldn’t handle himself when he needed to, but he preferred not to need to. There was always that stray stab that could nick an artery, and it would be all over in seconds. He had too many things he wanted to do, not that he got the chance often with the job being what it was. The daydreams came to him more often when he worked longer hours and left him playing catch up when he finally popped out of them.
Webster blinked his eyes and realized he had drifted away again. Only a minute according to his phone; he wouldn’t have missed anything in that time.
“Eyes on the ball,” Crothers always told him when he saw the distant look come over Webster.
“Think of the devil,” said Webster as the lift doors opened and Crothers hustled out, walking at double speed to Webster.
“Nothing to report, sir. No one in or out. No movement on this floor at all.”
“Good,” said Crothers. “Let’s go and knock them up, shall we.”
Their shoes made a soft crunch on the walkway, a thin layer of grit covering the bare concrete. Webster followed behind Crothers, looking behind them as they moved to avoid a surprise in the back. Crothers pace had slowed, and his eyes and ears probed the area in front of him, trying to gauge what lay behind his eyesight. A truck rumbled by with an exhaust like an air raid siren and the smell of fish and chips drifted up from a local takeaway. Nothing to help him gauge what waited ahead.
The door was pale blue with more dents and peels than a decade-old discarded tin of peaches. Six small frosted windows formed a rectangle in the upper part of the door, and a letterbox stood half-open in the middle. Crothers stepped rapidly past the doorway, ducking beneath the windows as Sergeant Webster waited on the other side. A large window stood at Crothers’ back, bars crisscrossing the glass so that only air could get through.
Crothers tried the doorbell, but after pushing the opaque plastic button several times he realized that it was not working. He rapped his knuckles on the door just below the windows. For all the response that he received, he might as well have kept working the bell. He knocked again, a little harder. Webster shook his head as the Inspector pointed to his ear. He heard nothing.
Priming his fist for another more violent assault upon the door, Crothers paused and cocked his head to one side, trying to shut out the noise drifting from below. He was sure that he had heard a bump through the door. While waiting, another sound, like someone stamping their foot, came muffled through the door.
Instead of knocking, Crothers went down onto one knee and slowly flipped the letterbox open further. He slid his eyes across the opening slowly, just in case someone with a stick was waiting for an eye to appear. A white cage enclosed the back of the letterbox, and the outside light made it difficult for him to see past it into the gloom beyond. Another bump, louder because of the open letterbox, came from the hallway beyond. Crothers focused, squinting past the bars, and his eyes caught movement. Was that breathing? Scratchy shallow breaths?
Another bump and Crothers saw it this time. The tires squashed against the baseboard as a motorized wheelchair tried to move forward. It backed away briefly before ramming the baseboard again. Crothers looked up from the tire to a foot, clad in a fluffy pink slipper. Up a blanket-covered leg to the armrest where a withered hand gripped a joystick. Up the arm to a shiny blade protruding from a black stain in a cotton blouse.
Jeremy Thurston’s mother weakly manoeuvred the joystick backwards, reversing her direction, as her breath fought feebly to enter her lungs.
“Webster!” cried Inspector Crothers. “Smash that window! Get this door open!”
Webster drew his truncheon and with two strikes popped the centre of the window. Crothers reached for his phone and called an ambulance. Webster cleared the jagged remnants and reached through the door to the lock on the far side. After a moment of searching his fingers found the latch and twisted it, pushing on the door as he did so.
Crothers pushed past Webster on his way to the injured woman.
“Mrs. Thurston, I’m Inspector Crothers,” he said softly as he knelt beside the wheelchair, gently removing the hand from the joystick. “Help is on the way.”
“I’m… not… Mrs.…” whispered the old woman harshly.
The Inspector paused for a second, confused by the response. Did they have the wrong flat?
“Who did this to you? Do you know a Jeremy Thurston?”
“My… idiot… son,” she hissed. “Jeremy.”
“Do you know where he is?” asked the Inspector, rising from his knees.
The old woman pointed weakly towards the back of the flat.
“Webster, stay with her,” ordered Crothers as he slid against the wall to get past the wheelchair.
Webster took Crothers’ place beside the chair, and Crothers heard him speaking quietly to the woman, who responded intermittently with faltering breaths.
Crothers passed two open doors that led off the hallway, one littered with piles of clothes and bedding, the other a grimy bathroom, before entering the sitting room. A dark brown sofa and the floor around it were covered in partially read newspapers. A small kitchenette with unwashed dishes stacked on the countertop opened up to one side. The other side of the room had a closed door flanked by two tattered prints.
A muffled scream came from the direction of the door, followed by quiet cursing. Crothers moved cautiously to the door and paused outside, waiting for another sound. A harsh whisper drifted through, a warning to be quiet.
The Inspector gripped the door hand slowly but firmly, the adrenaline flowing in his blood forcing a slight tremor through his legs. He had no idea what he would find on the other side of the door, and if it were not for the life of the girl, he really would not have wanted to find out. He had launched into the unknown and emerged unscathed too often for his luck to keep holding. The next time, this time, could be his last, and he was not ready for that.
With a deep breath, rammed the door open, his weight behind his shoulder. Another muffled scream greeted him. Melissa Hope shuffled backwards through an open sliding glass door that led to a small concrete balcony. Jeremy Thurston stood behind her, one hand over her mouth, the other holding a pair of curved shears in which sat Melissa’s ring finger. On the finger was a silver band with an arrangement of jewels around its surface.
“Stay back,” shouted Jeremy. “Stay back!”
“Jeremy, I’m Inspector Crothers. I’m here to help you and Melissa.”
“We don’t need your help,” said Jeremy more quietly. “We’re going to get married. She agreed to marry me.” There was a grin on Jeremy’s face, a grin whose happiness had no bearing on the situation at hand.
“That’s great,” replied Crothers. “But I need to talk to Melissa for a while. Can you let me do that?”
“N
o,” snapped Jeremy. “She doesn’t want to talk to you, do you?”
Melissa’s eyes said otherwise.
“Jeremy, you have got to let Melissa speak for herself. Marriage is about making decisions together, letting each person have their say.”
“But, she wants what I want,” said Jeremy, a hint of confusion entering his voice. “Isn’t that true, my love?”
Melissa tried to speak, but the hand over her mouth made the words come out as huffs of breath.
“Please, Jeremy,” said Crothers as he took a small step forward. “Let me talk to your fiancé.”
Jeremy’s eyes went from the Inspector to the side of Melissa’s face and down to the ring on her finger. His grip on Melissa’s mouth seemed to loosen, and he opened his mouth to speak. A scream emerged as Melissa got a finger between her teeth and bit down hard. Jeremy tried pulling his hand away, but Melissa had a solid grip.
“Bitch!” snarled Jeremy and he closed the shears on her finger, cutting through the muscle and bone easily.
Melissa released his finger then, letting her own scream drown out Jeremy’s curses. Crothers took a couple of steps forward in the confusion. He was still several feet away as Melissa gripped the wrist of her bloody hand while Jeremy dropped the shears and reached for her hair.
“You’ll never marry anyone else,” he yelled as he yanked her face up to look at his own. Her eyes were wide with pain and fear. “You are mine!”
With his final words, he reached with his bitten hand and shoved Melissa over the edge of the balcony.
Crothers dived through the doorway as Melissa’s feet left the concrete floor and she toppled backward, the rail pivoting her body over. Jeremy just watched with a small smile of satisfaction on his face.
Crothers’ shoulder slammed into Jeremy’s stomach, doubling him over and the Inspector ricocheted towards Melissa. He flung his body at her legs as they tilted upward, her body already far over the edge. He wrapped his arms around her knees and hoped his muscles would hold. Her feet kicked him painfully in the stomach, and he fell to his knees, jarring them upon the unyielding concrete.
Murder in the Mail: A Diane Dimbleby Cozy Mystery Page 7