An Unholy Mess

by Joyce Cato

  After Len Biggs had been visited, and had vociferously assured them that the tarpaulins hadn’t been on the walls Friday afternoon when all the decorators had left, the two policemen returned to the incident room.

  ‘It just doesn’t make sense, sir,’ Jim said peevishly. ‘Biggs must have got it wrong, that’s all.’

  Jason retrieved the photographs of the scene of the crime and spread them across his desk, not sure what he was looking for. All they told him was what he knew already –- that the tarpaulins were in place on the walls, except the one that had been pulled down and used to cover the body. So what did this latest information actually tell them? He was sure it should tell them everything, if only he was smart enough to see it.

  Back in her kitchen, Monica rescued her quiche, thinking that if only she could figure it all out, Carol-Ann would be in the clear. The only trouble was, she felt hopelessly inadequate. And the mystery about the tarpaulins simply had her baffled.

  But she wasn’t a quitter, either. She’d figure it out if it killed her!

  CHAPTER 14

  John put down his knife and fork and leaned back in his chair, feeling pleasantly replete.

  ‘That’s the best breakfast I’ve had since I came here the last time,’ he said, smiling in satisfaction.

  Vera smiled back, retrieved his plate, and took it to the sink, running hot water over it, and adding a squirt of washing-up liquid. But her mind was clearly on things less domestic.

  ‘I see that Maurice is back,’ she said casually.

  ‘Yes, he came back sometime early last evening,’ he confirmed. ‘Not that I was looking out for him or anything.’

  Thursday had dawned, as irrepressibly bright and hot as all the previous days. Vera returned to the table with a pot of freshly brewed coffee, and a creamer. She pushed the bowl filled with brown sugar a little closer to his place setting.

  ‘The inquest will have to be held soon,’ she mused, bringing a newly poured, piping hot cup to her lips and blowing on it gently. Slowly, their eyes met and Vera sighed heavily. ‘It’ll all be over soon, won’t it?’ she asked softly.

  John nodded. ‘Yes, I think so,’ he said levelly. ‘But I’m worried about Pauline.’

  ‘John, do you think we should do something?’ she asked worriedly.

  John continued to sip his coffee and said nothing.

  Monica, with Carol-Ann chattering non-stop beside her, parked her little run-around in the centre of Cheltenham. And, as usual in these days of budget cuts and swingeing charges, was forced to pay handsomely by the council for the privilege. Sighing, she checked her already denuded purse, and nodded.

  ‘Right, we’ve got fifty pounds to blow on an outfit between us, and not a penny more. So choose carefully.’

  And after complaining bitterly about her miserly ways, which would have put Mrs Scrooge to shame (apparently), choosing carefully was exactly what Carol-Ann did, dragging her mother remorselessly from shop to shop. Eventually, in about the fifth arty boutique they tried, Carol-Ann finally decided on a bargain-price flowered granny frock, (which, for some reason, was back in Vogue this season) which left Monica with about half an hour to find her own dress. She knew that Graham liked velvet, and a very pale blue evening gown in just that material which happened to catch her eye on a back rail, and which was also on special offer, was undoubtedly the find of the day. No matter how much Carol-Ann made barfing gestures in the changing room about its (‘boring’) midi-length style and nicely decorous, (‘old-maidish’) boat-shaped neckline.

  On the way home, they chatted about Carol-Ann’s unsuccessful search for a job and her upcoming exam propositions. By mutual consent, they made no mention whatsoever of the murder or anything remotely connected with that weekend’s events. But as Monica slowed down on the busy main road and indicated to turn off towards Heyford Bassett, she nevertheless felt something suddenly niggle at her. Something important that her subconscious was trying to bring to her attention, if only she could remember, or figure out, what it was.

  But then they were home and re-trying on their purchases in front of Monica’s bedroom mirror, testing certain accessories and different jewellery combinations, and they were once again two giggling, carefree, sated shopaholics. And whatever the vague idea was that had been trying to slip into her consciousness, slid away again.

  If Monica and Carol-Ann had spent the day in idle pleasure, Jason Dury and his team most certainly hadn’t. And at just gone five o’clock, one of the constables set the task of researching the backgrounds of the residents, came in with something interesting.

  ‘Sir,’ the constable approached Jason with eager respect. ‘Your hunch that you’d seen Paul Waring somewhere before was right.’

  Jason looked up. ‘Oh? Let’s have it then,’ he said eagerly.

  ‘Do you remember about six years ago, when you busted David Friel?’

  The name rang a bell. ‘Yes. He owned a health club and gym in Shrewsbury. One of his clients died – heart attack I think it was.’

  ‘That’s right, sir. But the autopsy was a bit iffy.’

  ‘I remember. Friel had been supplying him with steroids in dangerous amounts. They argued culpable homicide for a while, and his brief cried blue murder and held out for natural causes. In the end, he pulled a ten stretch for manslaughter if I remember rightly.’

  ‘You do, sir. Well, guess who was working at the gym at the time?’

  Jason suddenly grinned. ‘Is that so? He was one of Friel’s boys, was he? I wondered where I’d seen him before. He wasn’t implicated in the victim’s death, though, was he?’

  ‘No, sir. He was just a fitness instructor. I don’t think the victim was even one of his clients. They tended to be women, apparently, from what was noted in the file.’

  Jason smiled. ‘Yes. I can see our Mr Waring being a popular choice with the ladies. Well, constable … er…?’

  ‘Phillips, sir.’

  ‘Well, Constable Phillips, let’s go and have a word with our Mr Waring, and see what he has to say for himself, shall we?’

  And Constable Phillips, who’d never been this close to a murder investigation before, wasn’t averse to that suggestion at all.

  In her room on the top floor, Julie, under her mother’s watchful eye, sullenly packed her bags.

  ‘I still think this is a mistake,’ she said uncertainly. ‘Won’t the police think it’s suspicious, me going away like this all of a sudden?’

  ‘Why should they? You’re only taking a summer holiday – nothing suspicious in that,’ Joan responded crisply. ‘And when you’ve got a friend living in a Devon village as pretty as Combe Martin, with a mother who does bed and breakfast, it’s an obvious place to go.’

  Joan had changed out of all recognition in the last week, and for once her daughter no longer felt as if she had the upper hand. In fact, Julie was just the littlest bit afraid of Joan now.

  ‘That’s everything then,’ Julie said feebly, snapping the case shut and hauling it off the bed. ‘What time’s the train?’

  ‘You’ve got plenty of time yet. I’ll just have a look outside.’ The last thing Joan wanted was for the police to spot her daughter sneaking out with a suitcase. Or Sean Franklyn seeing them leave, for that matter. She pulled aside the bedroom curtain and craned her neck to look below and then to the left and the right. There didn’t seem to be anybody about.

  Behind her, Julie took a big, shaky breath.

  ‘Mum?’ she said softly.

  Joan turned her head. ‘What, love?’

  ‘Oh, nothing I suppose. Just, well … thanks,’ Julie said humbly.

  Joan smiled. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you, chick. You know that. Come on, let’s go, while the coast’s clear.’ She wouldn’t feel happy until her precious baby was safely out of easy reach. Then, whatever happened, Joan would be there to take the flack. And, like a mother tigress, she’d defend her cub to her dying breath.

  Pauline tapped on Paul’s door and w
aited anxiously for a response, hopping a little nervously from one foot to the other. She was wearing an emerald green silk top with no bra, and a close-fitting pair of denim jeans so old they were almost white. She smiled brightly as the door opened, and held out the bottle of expensive mineral water that she was carrying.

  ‘Hello.’ There was a hint of uncertainty in her voice. ‘Truce?’

  Paul smiled ruefully and stepped aside to let her pass. ‘Of course. Come on in. Look, I’m sorry I snapped your head off the other day. It wasn’t right to take it out on you, but I’d just had a rotten day, and everything got on top of me I suppose, and you just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m not usually that grouchy, it’s just—’

  ‘I know,’ Pauline interrupted his apology quickly, not that she wasn’t feeling relieved and gratified with it. ‘Things can get on your nerves, can’t they? I feel the same. This place just feels really oppressive right now, have you noticed?’ She waved the bottle again. ‘Have you got some ice and maybe a slice of lime or lemon?’

  Ten minutes later they were sat together on the sofa, sipping the water and using fingers of a somewhat dry and tough bran bread loaf to mop up a dill and cheese dip that Paul had got from a health food shop in Cheltenham.

  Pauline watched him alertly, wishing the mineral water had a good dash of gin in it. Then she smiled to herself, remembering how she’d sneaked into his apartment on the day of the murder to spice his veggie drink with vodka. Oh, it had seemed like a grand plan at the time. And, once he was nicely drunk, she’d planned to jump his bones.

  But then Margaret had gone and got herself murdered, and all that sneaking around had been for nothing. Not even she had been able to think up an excuse to go calling on Paul with all of that going on. And she wondered, with another inner smile, if he’d noticed that that day’s batch of veggie juice had gone down rather better than most?

  When the doorbell suddenly rang, Pauline groaned.

  ‘Oh, for Pete’s sake! Just ignore it. They’ll go away, whoever it is,’ she snapped.

  But the doorbell sounded again, and when Paul reluctantly rose and answered it, it was to find Jason Dury and a blank-faced constable on the other side. He grimaced wryly.

  ‘Come on in, Chief Inspector and join the party.’

  Jason took him at his word and cast Pauline a quick, assessing look. ‘I was wondering if I could have a word with you, sir?’ Jason said. And looked pointedly at Pauline. ‘Alone.’

  Pauline’s finely plucked brows rose. Sensing fireworks, Paul grimaced again.

  He said wearily, ‘I’m sure that whatever it is you want to ask me can be talked about in front of Pauline.’

  Jason shrugged. ‘Very well, Mr Waring.’ And on your own head so be it, he added silently. ‘We’ve met before, did you know that?’

  Paul looked at him, openly surprised. ‘Have we? It must have been a long time ago.’

  ‘It was. Six years sir, to be precise. In Shrewsbury.’

  Paul’s face suddenly shifted. Then he sighed.

  ‘Ahh,’ he said, on a small sigh. ‘That. I was wondering when you’d get around to it,’ he added flatly. On the sofa, Pauline moved to the edge of her seat and watched her erstwhile lover like a hawk. ‘This is about David Friel, isn’t it?’ Paul asked grimly.

  He made no effort to ask them to sit down, or if they wanted refreshments. He himself remained defiantly standing.

  Jason nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Look,’ Paul sighed. ‘I don’t say I agree with what David did, but as I said in court at the time, and would say again if I had to, Gregory Orland must have known what he was doing when he took those steroids. Orland wanted results fast, that much I do remember. He simply wasn’t prepared to work at it, and get the results he craved by just diet and exercise alone. He wanted to look good, and he wanted it fast. If you ask me, he was either trying to impress a woman, or make some bloke jealous. I know his sort. They want abs like Sylvester Stalone in his heyday, but have no real concept of what level of commitment that takes, so they look for a shortcut. It makes you despair, sometimes, honest it does. And then when something goes wrong, his family look for a scapegoat to blame.’ His voice was heated, but, even to the policeman’s ears, he sounded sincere. ‘Don’t get me wrong, if Dave did supply him with steroids, he was an idiot. But if that was going on at that gym, I had nothing to do with it. Besides, I was way down on the totem pole at the time – me and the aerobics instructor weren’t paid as well as the cleaners. Let alone have any say in the running or management of the place. That’s just one of the reasons why I was so determined to get my own gym.’

  To give himself time to think, Jason looked slowly around the room. Waring’s flat, number 10, was one of the three big, prestigious flats. Done out in pale green, with hints of cream and turquoise, with bamboo furnishings, it looked impressive.

  ‘The gym business obviously pays well, Mr Waring?’ Jason asked casually.

  Paul grinned. ‘Yes, I’m glad to say,’ he said. ‘And you can check up on any of my gyms, Inspector. They’re all drug-free, I assure you. Seeing Dave’s life ruined and the poor sod go to jail, not to mention having to testify in court, all really made their mark on me. I’ll say this for the whole, sorry experience though, it certainly taught me about some of the pitfalls in this business, and what not to do.’

  ‘I see. Well, thank you for the offer to check out your establishments, sir,’ Jason said mildly. And he’d probably be taking him up on that. When he got the time. ‘Well, that’s all for now,’ he said, and turned away.

  But just as he was going out the door, Jason heard Pauline’s harping voice demanding to know what all that had been about, and he realized that, wealthy or not, he didn’t envy Paul Waring one bit. There was something very hard and tenacious about the predatory divorcee that set his hackles rising.

  In the lounge, Pauline watched Paul finish his drink, and began to reach out with her hand to touch him. But Paul suddenly leapt from the sofa.

  ‘Well, I guess I’ll put the Nikes on and get in a few miles. Fancy a jog, Pauline?’ he asked, with just a hint of malice.

  Pauline sighed. That hadn’t been the kind of exercise she’d had in mind.

  ‘Thanks, I think I’ll pass,’ she said drolly.

  Paul shrugged and showed her out.

  It wasn’t until much later, as she was standing at her window and watching Joan park her car and cross the gravel back into the house, that she suddenly remembered something. Just what it had been about the afternoon of the murder, and clothes, which had been niggling away at the back of her mind all week.

  And remembering it made her thoughtful and curious, when it should have made her scared. Instantly, she reached for the phone.

  Back in the incident room, Jim listened intently as Jason filled him in on the latest news.

  ‘But there was no hint that our friend Waring had anything to do with supplying steroids to this bloke that died?’ he asked, when Jason was finished.

  ‘None that came out at the trial, at any rate,’ Jason said, re-reading the photocopies of the Orland case that had been incorporated in Constable Phillips’s report. ‘Of course, Friel claimed he’d never even so much as seen a bottle of steroids, let alone passed any on to Gregory Orland.’

  ‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’ Jim said with a grin.

  ‘Hmm. They never found out who Friel’s supplier was, though,’ he noted quietly.

  Jim glanced at Jason thoughtfully. ‘Are you thinking that it was Waring who was really behind it all, sir?’

  Jason sighed heavily. ‘No, not really. And there’s not even a hint that he might have been in the original files. But it’s possible. And if he has done it before, perhaps he’s doing it now. In which case, Margaret might have found out about it. She was the sort that did find out things, remember? Blackmailers have long noses, and they make a point of sticking them in where they don’t belong. That way they find out all sorts of useful things. Or m
aybe she was a member at one of his gyms, and was offered a little something to help her get her weight down perhaps? She seemed obsessive about that. Check it out anyway, will you?’

  ‘Right away, sir. And if it turns out that she did have a membership at one of his gyms? Does it really follow that she was blackmailing him as well?’ Jim sounded doubtful.

  It all sounded very tenuous to him. He hated to think it, but perhaps his boss was starting to clutch at straws? After all, they were now past that magic milestone, the first 48 hours, and as every copper well knew, if a case wasn’t solved by then, the chances of it getting solved at all slowly diminished.

  ‘Yes, do that,’ Jason said, but with a dull feeling that he would be wasting his time. ‘And while you’re at it, find Phillips and ask him if he can find any connection between the man who died, this Orland character, and Margaret Franklyn.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Jason went through the report again. Apart from Waring’s one, very tenuous brush with the law, the man’s life had been perfectly straightforward. After a pretty standard education, he’d got into weightlifting, and from that sport went on to win a few minor body-building trophies in his early twenties. He’d then travelled about the world a bit before finally settling down to set up his first gym here in the Cotswolds. That had been founded on the strength of his trophies and his ability to convince a bank manager that the body-beautiful boom would last. And so it had. And from there he’d never looked back. The financial boys had had time to go through his complicated books now, and had discovered nothing more incriminating than the fact that he was a little on the optimistic side when it came to predicting profit margins. That, and that he was about to sell off one of his less-profitable gyms.

  The only other piece of information the painstaking constable had been able to uncover was that Paul had a certain reputation as a ‘star-maker’ in the body building world. No doubt putting his own knowledge of competitions to use, he’d produced several ‘champions’ over the years. His gym in Stroud in particular had sponsored one or two competitors in last year’s ‘Mr England’ competition. Moreover, one of his customers had won a male-body-modelling contract with one of the big London agencies not so long ago.