by ML Rose
Another round of inspection of the table revealed at least two people had dined here recently. She could see the light indentation that plates had left on the tablecloth. There was a flower vase in the middle, bereft of any plants. She looked inside, and shone a torch. Nothing. She lifted the vase and peered at the underside. There was a manufacturers inscription, but nothing else.
Arla went down on all fours, and looked underneath the table. She found some breadcrumbs, and a few more blotches of the sauce. When she touched them, they were still wet. All of them had the same, minty smell.
She frowned.
Even Nicole was less messy. If two adults had eaten here, why had one of them dropped sauce under the table?
The droppings were concentrated around the chair that Mrs Farquharson had just vacated. Arla examined the chair carefully. It was made of pine wood, with a foam upholstering. She didn't find any food residues on the chair. She reached inside her coat pocket and pulled out a swab stick. She took a swab of the sauce and inserted it inside the tube, and snapped off the top. She inserted the specimen tube inside its bag.
Harry walked up to her. "Found anything?"
She told him. He came around to her side and stared at the floor. Arla looked behind them, through the glass door, where the stone patio came to an end after about four metres, and the grass lawn began. Did the diners go outside last night?
"Still no signs of a struggle," Harry murmured. "Any signs of a pet?"
"Good question," Arla said. Pet owners sometimes spoiled their fluffy four-legged friends by giving them food under the table. So far, she hadn't seen any feeding bowls or pet food. "But I think this is a pet free house."
"Send a couple of uniformed constables to have a look at the rear." Harry gave her a mock salute, and she rolled her eyes. Harry called up Rob, and with a constable, they went outside.
Arla went over to the kitchen sink. She found a dash of red wine against the white ceramic. Some frothy bubbles in the plughole. She opened the dishwasher. It was full. Everything had been washed, which was a shame, because she wouldn't get a DNA sample.
She opened the rest of the cabinets, noting the thickness of the wood, and the nice, soft close mechanism. The spice rack had a range of Mediterranean, Indian and Chinese spices. Nothing unusual. She didn't find any evidence of pet food.
Lisa appeared next to her. "I started doing a door to door, guv. I found a neighbour who’s willing to talk. She says she saw a woman arrive last night."
A frisson of excitement shook Arla's spine. "Have you spoken to her?"
Yes, she describes the woman as about the same age as Dr Vaughan. She was blonde and wore dark jacket and trousers with heels. She had seen the woman come here before."
"Good work, Lisa. Let's speak to her."
CHAPTER 9
Mrs Wilson lived opposite, and her terraced house had seen better days. The white paint was peeling, rain and diesel fumes were turning parts of it into a non-descript greyish colour. The windows hadn't been cleaned for years, and the curtains were heavy with dust.
The old-age pensioner was standing at the door. Her hair was receding, and she was wearing a blouse and a floral frock that reached below her knees. Arla showed her warrant card, and the woman looked at it carefully.
"Are you Edith Wilson?" Arla asked.
"Yes," Edith answered. "What happened there? Is he dead?"
"Yes."
Miss Wilson's eyes widened, then she shook her head sadly. "I can't believe it. Stephen was a good man. Always said hello to me. Don't tell me someone killed him." Her hand went to her open mouth. "This is a nice area, you know. That sort of thing doesn't happen here."
"I cannot comment on a current investigation, Miss Wilson," Arla said patiently. "How well did you know Mr Vaughan?"
"Well, I saw him around, you know. I take my trolley to the supermarket, and he would offer me a lift. Such a gentleman. Young people these days just don't have any manners."
"Did you ever go to his house?"
"No."
"And did he ever come into yours?"
"A few years ago, when my husband was alive. He slipped and fell in the garden, and I knocked on Stephen's door. He came over and helped my husband into the sofa, and also called an ambulance. He stayed with us till the ambulance arrived. He was such a nice man. I can't believe this has happened."
"Did you know his wife or daughter?"
"I saw them around, yes. But not for the last few years. Stephen said they separated."
"Over the last few days, did you notice anything unusual on the street? Or in front of Dr Vaughan's house?"
Miss Wilson appeared lost in thought for a few seconds. Then she shook her old, wizened face. "No, can't say I have."
Arla shifted from one foot to the other. She glanced at Lisa. "Okay. Who did you see last night?"
"Oh, that was his lady friend," Miss Wilson's voice became lower, conspiratorial. She leaned forward, and spoke to Arla in a hushed voice. "Don't tell anyone, will you? But I have seen that woman come and go over the years. Even when he was married."
Arla raised her eyebrows, feigning interest, spurring Miss Wilson on. "Oh, really?"
"Yes, I tell you, whoever that woman is, her and Stephen were… You know."
"Do you know her name?
"No. "
Lisa spoke up. "What sort of car did she drive?"
"It was a fancy looking car. Mercedes, I think. One of those two-seater ones where the roof goes back."
"A convertible."
"That's the one."
Do you know the registration number of the car, by any chance?" Lisa asked hopefully. Mrs Wilson shook her head.
Arla took the description of the woman once again, and it was as Lisa had mentioned.
She asked, "You said she was blonde. But when she came last night, it was dark, correct?"
Ms Wilson appeared to be lost in thought. Lisa asked, "Do you mind if we come inside and sit down?"
Miss Wilson blinked, and her dry lips split into a grin. She had a front tooth missing. Her blouse and frock had seen better days, but they were clean. The slippers on her shoes were frayed, and the skin on her shins was cracked. She kept herself busy, but Arla could tell the vagaries of old age were weighing on Miss Wilson.
She felt a twinge of sorrow. Elderly people often lead lonely lives. They belonged to a different generation, they had survived through the war, and were stoic. Their character prevented them from asking for help.
At least Miss Wilson was active, and despite the hardship of living alone, she looked after herself. Briefly, Arla’s mind flashed to her father, Timothy Baker. He lived alone in his flat by the railway lines, his remorseful days slowly fading into oblivion. She sighed, and brought her mind back to the present. She followed Lisa and Miss Wilson into the living room.
The wallpaper was a faded brown pattern, and the carpet was threadbare. The leather sofas were worn out, and a puff of dust rose as Arla sat down. Miss Wilson asked, "Would you like a cup of tea?"
Lisa glanced at Arla and said, "I can make us a cupper, if you like?" Arla grinned. Lisa was being nice.
Miss Wilson agreed. "Are you sure you don't mind, dear? The teabags are in the cabinet over the hob. There is coffee there too, with biscuits, if you like. Please help yourself."
Lisa went off, and Arla focused her attention on the elderly woman. "When you saw Dr Vaughan’s lady friend’s car arrive, were the headlights on?"
"Yes, they were."
"If it was night time, how did you notice the colour of her hair?"
Miss Wilson's eyes widened a fraction. "Oh, I see. I was upstairs. This is normally a quiet street, you know. I saw the cars and wondered who it was. When the woman got out, the streetlight fell on her. That's how I saw her."
Arla wondered why Miss Wilson was looking out the window, but she kept it to herself.
"You said she was wearing a dark coat and trousers. She had heels on. How could you see her shoes from upstairs?"
Arla was getting suspicious about Miss Wilson's statement. Yes, she probably did recognise the woman. But details like her heels sounded fabricated to Arla. She had looked already for hearing aids, and seen a device nestled in Miss Wilson's left ear. Out of politeness, Arla decided not to bring it up.
"Did you ever see this woman in daylight?"
Miss Wilson pondered. Lisa came in with a grey plastic tray with three steaming mugs and a plate of biscuit. Arla took a cup of tea with thanks, and refused the biscuits with a murmur.
"I'm pretty sure I have. She came mostly in the evenings. But in the summertime, when there’s light, it's easier to see."
"Would you be able to recognise her face if you saw her again?"
Miss Wilson shrugged. "I think so, yes."
Lisa asked, "Why don't you describe her once again?"
"She was pretty. Always nicely turned out. Shoulder length blonde hair, straight." Miss Wilson paused, and rubbed her hands together on her lap.
Arla said, "I suppose you were too far to ever notice details like her eye colour, or any distinguishing features like a mole on her face."
The elderly woman nodded. "Yes, I'm afraid so."
Arla asked, "Are you sure it was the same woman who arrived last night?"
Miss Wilson hesitated. Arla knew why. She was watching from the upstairs bedroom window, and she could only have seen this woman in the dark, and from behind.
"You didn't see her face last night, did you? Arla asked after a sip of the tea.
Miss Wilson pressed her lips together, then stared at the carpet. "No, I didn't. But the way she walked and held herself, I'm pretty sure it was her."
"Did she ring the bell, or have a key?"
"She rang the bell, and waited. Stephen opened the door and let her in."
Lisa asked, "Did you see her come out?"
"No. Come to think of it, I didn’t see her leave in the morning either."
Arla narrowed her eyes. "You said you saw this woman even when Stephen was married. His wife and daughter were living in the house. Did this woman stay the night?"
"I don't know, dear. I know she used to come when Stephen was married, but it wasn't very often. But since his wife left, I see her more frequently."
"How frequently? More than once a week?"
Miss Wilson sipped her tea, thinking. Then she put her cup down on the plate. "I'd say once or twice a week." Her eyes flicked from Arla to Lisa. "Do you think she did this to Stephen?"
Arla raised a hand. "We cannot make any assumptions at this stage, Miss Wilson. There's a lot of ground to cover." Arla took out her card and handed it to Miss Wilson, who read it with great interest. She looked up, her green eyes twinkling.
"Detective Chief Inspector. You've done well for yourself, my dear. In my day, all the inspectors were men."
Arla stood, smoothing down her coat. "Well, it's taken a long time for things to change. But they are changing. Thank you very much for the cup of tea. If you think of anything more, then please give me a call."
"Oh yes, I certainly will. I'll help in any way I can, you know. Stephen was such a nice man. It's such a shame." Miss Wilson clicked her tongue on the roof of her mouth. Lisa and Arla walked out, and waved at the elderly lady standing at the doorway. She seemed reluctant to shut the door.
Arla stood on the pavement, and swivelled her head from side to side, craning her neck upwards. No CCTV, as she had already noted. She was looking at the ends of the road, for the angles on the street corners. There would be CCTV out there on the main road, and chances were, they would pick up a black Mercedes convertible turning into this road last night.
That was a start.
CHAPTER 10
A blue Audi A5 pulled up behind the squad car. Arla watched as Dr Banerjee got out of the car. He brushed some crumbs off his crumpled linen suit, then adjusted his glasses. He saw Arla across the street and waved. Arla waved back, and with Lisa, crossed the road.
Arla said, "I want a door to door asking specifically about the blonde woman and her car. Cover the whole block if necessary, and make sure we get statements from all the houses on the street. We should also check if Dr Vaughan lived anywhere else. Maybe he met up with this woman in a different house or flat while he was married."
"I'll ring the nick and ask Geeta and Rosslyn to start on it, guv."
Dr Banerjee approached them, and Arla knew something wasn’t right from the frown on his face. "Anything wrong, Doc? Why did you come back?
Dr Banerjee took his glasses off, and wiped the lens. His brown eyes blinked at Arla.
"Yes, there is. The victim's name was bothering me, and I asked a couple of my medical colleagues. Turns out he's a friend of a friend. I met him once, many years ago. He worked at the same hospital as me as a junior doctor. We never stayed in touch, but I used to know him vaguely."
Dr Banerjee put both hands on his waist and stared at the ground. "My mind was churning even when I was examining him. Why his name seemed familiar. I can't believe it."
Arla reached out and touched his shoulder. "I'm sorry Doc. When did you last see him?"
Dr Banerjee shrugged, then sighed. "A long time. More than 10 years maybe. It was at a medical conference, and I saw him with a group of friends. I must be getting old, Arla. How did I not recognise him?"
Arla smiled. "You always told me the dead look very different to when they’re alive."
The pathologist shook his head in sadness, then rubbed his eyes. He took a moment to compose himself.
He said, "Yes, that’s true. It’s still awful to have examined a former colleague, and not recognise him. But I didn't really know him well."
"But your friends did, right? Maybe they can shed some light on him."
Dr Banerjee blinked, the nodded. "Dr Rowbotham, a consultant gynaecologist at St Peter's Hospital in Surrey knew him well. He is my friend. I haven't told him about what happened, but I know he will speak to you if I ask him."
"So, Dr Rowbotham worked with him?"
"For several years, yes. Julian Rowbotham is his full name. He knew Stephen well."
"What do you know about Dr Vaughan?"
Dr Banerjee stared at Arla for a few seconds. "Julian once told me in passing that he had a reputation as a womaniser. That's all I know. I never really spoke to the man. Like I said, a friend of a friend."
"And he wasn't the same speciality as you. He was a gynaecologist."
"Yes, that's right. Julian is also a gynaecologist, but I went to medical school with Julian, and our wives were friends. That's how I stayed in touch with him."
Arla knew that Sheila, Dr Banerjee's wife, had passed away. His two daughters had grown up, and had families of their own.
"Thanks for coming back to tell me, Doc. You could have just called."
"I had to tell you in person. I felt terrible, after I made the connection. Julian kept asking me why I was enquiring about Stephen Vaughan. I couldn't give him an answer. Shall I tell him?"
Arla thought for a while. Then she inclined her head. "Yes, I think you should. What do you think about the cause of death? You said it wasn't strangulation, despite the bruise marks on the neck."
Dr Banerjee shook his head. "No. Look, death could be by natural means. He could have had a massive coronary attack, or a stroke. I won't know till I open him up."
"But that doesn't explain the trauma on his body."
"No, it doesn't. But he could have had a physical fight with someone, then had a coronary. That's possible."
Arla folded her arms across her chest, and crossed one foot over the other. She thought of the dinner table, and the drops of food on the floor. No broken glass. No signs of a struggle. Yet, it was clear that there had been a fight.
"I shall look for scrapes of skin underneath his nails," Dr Banerjee suggested. "I’ll let you know as soon as we have a result. I'll speak to Julian as well."<
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"This evening?" Arla raised her eyebrows, aware she was pushing her luck.
Dr Banerjee smiled. "No chance. Got three stiffs on the table already. More like tomorrow evening."
CHAPTER 11
The early birds were twittering in the trees. Shafts of sunlight played hide and seek in green branches, and illuminated patches of grass and tombstones. The early morning dew was evaporating, tendrils of smoke wisping, curling in the air and fading.
Charlie was the only person in this part of the cemetery.
His shoes crunched on the concrete path as he walked down, the grave stones of those long gone stretched out on both sides.
Rays of warm sunlight touched his hair and face, and he closed his eyes briefly. The memories swarmed back so easily.
There she was, laughing at him in the dining room at his inability to cook.
How she thrust her hips to one side, hands on waist, posing for a photo.
The visions slipped away like dew drops down a blade of grass. They were replaced by a hollow, aching emptiness. Charlie tried to swallow, but the familiar, heavy weight was back in his throat.
His fingers fluttered up to his left breast pocket, and touched the photo. He kept it there, and every single shirt or vest he wore had a similar pocket, designed to hold that photo. She rested, just above his heart, where she would always be.
He rubbed the photo gently, as if by some stroke of magic, it might bring her back. It didn't, but strangely, that physical act of touching the cotton, feeling her image inside the pocket was reassuring.
Maybe reassuring was too strong a word. The emptiness returned, sucking him inside its deep vortex. That's what grief was like. It sucked you in, weighed you down. Some mornings he couldn't get out of bed. Even when he did, he felt like he was wearing an iron coat, tight across his shoulders and arms, making every single movement difficult.
The bouquet of white roses was nestled on the crook of his elbow. He came once every two weeks, without fail. He stopped in front of the tombstone that bore her name.
Irene Smith. 10th January 1990 – 5th September2015.