by M A Comley
“It looked pretty busy out there to me,” Lorne said.
“Yes…Well, you happened to catch us on a busy day.” Timmins’s face coloured up.
“Well, we won’t hold you up any longer. Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Timmins. We’ll be in touch, should Miss Fishland pop up anytime in the near future.”
As Timmins showed them out, Pete whispered to Lorne, “He probably misses his Friday night bonking session in the storeroom with her. He’s shagging her. It’s a dead cert—that’s why he’s so pissed at her.”
The same thought had occurred to Lorne, but she would have never voiced such an opinion. Especially when the person she was gossiping about was fewer than ten feet away, but that was Pete.
“That, I believe, leaves us with just one option, unless the person hasn’t been logged as missing,” stated Lorne as they headed towards her car.
“Yup, Belinda Greenaway. She’s a widow. Her sister informed us of her disappearance. She has a son who lives about two hundred miles away.”
“Does the sister live nearby? Perhaps we’ve got time to drop in on her before we have to swing by Arnaud’s office for the PM report.”
“About half an hour away.” Pete glanced at his watch.
“You can fill me in on the way. It’ll take your mind off my driving.” She poked his chubby midriff.
“With respect, boss, as long as I’m in the passenger seat of your car, nothing will take my mind off your driving.” He opened the door and squeezed his large frame in. “Apparently, Belinda was due to attend her niece’s daughter’s christening. There was no family dispute or anything like that, and the family has grown more anxious, the longer she’s been gone. It was her favourite niece, you see; there was no way she would have missed it.”
“What’s the woman’s background?” Lorne asked as they ground to a halt in a traffic jam.
“Widowed four years ago; husband, Jack, died in a crash. Nothing else showed up on file, except that she was a housewife.” Pete slammed his notebook shut.
“That’s not very PC of you, Pete,” she teased as she crunched through the gears.
Pete cringed. “PC? What the heck is that?”
“Political correctness. Nowadays, there is no such thing as a housewife. I believe the term is ‘domestic engineer’.”
“Housewives, domestic engineers,” he grumbled, watching the green, wide-open spaces of the countryside whiz past his window. “It all amounts to the same thing, don’t it? They all sit on their arses, watching daytime TV all day long, and then twenty minutes before the old man is due home, they rustle up a meal that they’ve just been watching on Ready Steady Cook and pretend it took them three hours to prepare. While the breadwinner is out some twelve to fourteen hours, five days a week, busting a gut so they can have a cushy lifestyle.”
“God, you bloody MCP, you can be so infuriating at times. You missed your vocation—you should’ve been a caveman. You’re forgetting one thing, though.” She took her eyes off the road momentarily to meet his glance her way. “What about Tom? You’ve just insinuated he sits around all day, doing nothing. I’d like to be there when you ran through that little scenario with him. You wouldn’t leave my house in one piece, mate.”
“Shit, I forgot about your Tom.” He looked suitably embarrassed.
“Oh, I get it—it’s different for men. They can find something useful to do with their time, is that it?” Here comes another battle of the sexes.
“He’s just finished putting in a brand new kitchen for you, hasn’t he? Not that you use it much,” he added disrespectfully, under his breath.
“There’re plenty of women out there who enjoy DIY—in fact, they probably get most of their tips off daytime TV. And no, I don’t use my kitchen much, because like you, I work twelve, fourteen, sometimes even sixteen hours a day. But unlike you, I don’t have to rely on take-aways, as I have a loving husband at home who thinks enough of me to ensure I eat healthily every day.” Stick that in your caveman pipe and smoke it.
“All right, all right, boss. You’ve made your point,” Pete admitted, holding up his hands.
Lorne smiled smugly and mentally stroked the air with a finger. Another strike to me. Poor Pete—he always started arguments about equality but rarely won them. She constantly reminded him not to jump to conclusions, especially where people’s status in life was concerned. One day, he just might listen to her.
She chuckled at the mental image of him in a loincloth, dragging a woman by her hair, wooden club in hand, ready to ward off predators after his woman.
“Do you want to share the joke with me?”
“Not really,” she said, as they pulled up at their destination.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The cul-de-sac was made up of immaculately cared-for retirement bungalows, each with its own miniature Chelsea garden at the front. It thrilled Lorne to see all the rose bushes engorged with buds even at that late time of year.
The sight made her feel ashamed of her own shabby garden that bore the scars of a near-teenager and a dog rampaging through it. Her lawn regularly looked as if a Premiership football team had kicked nine months of shit out of it. She and Tom had decided a while back that the quaint country cottage garden they yearned for would have to be put on hold for a few years, until Charlie was much older.
“What’s the woman’s name, Pete?” she asked ringing the bell.
“Doreen Nicholls.”
He’s still in a huff. She wanted to tell him to grow up.
They listened as three dead bolts were slid back, and a safety chain was put on. The door opened six inches, and a frail voice asked, “Who is it?”
“Mrs. Nicholls, I’m DI Lorne Simpkins, and this is my partner, DS Pete Childs. Do you mind if we come in and ask you a few questions about your sister?” As she spoke, Lorne thrust her ID through the gap in the door. The woman took it, studied it, and handed it back before opening the door fully to let them in.
“You’ll have to excuse the mess, dears. I’ve not long come out of hospital. Come through to the sitting room.” The smell of Vicks menthol greeted them as they followed the woman, who leaned heavily on a stick as she slowly made her way up the hallway.
It was as if they had just gone through a time warp. Weaving its way through the bungalow was a brown swirly patterned carpet that must have been en vogue sometime back in the early seventies. Lorne guessed the home hadn’t seen a paintbrush or roller in years.
The focal point of the lounge was a 1940’s tiled fireplace, complete with what was most likely an original gas fire from the same era. The brown carpet clashed horribly with the bold red pattern of the threadbare velour sofas. The thick chunky wooden arms dated the furniture to thirty years or more back.
“Would you care for some tea and scones? I’ve just this minute taken them out of the oven,” the old lady asked, her voice high and squeaky. “Even a busted hip can’t prevent me from baking.”
Lorne declined, but Pete jumped at the chance to make his belly bigger. The woman trundled off to the kitchen, leaving them to wander around the room.
“This must be the daughter,” Lorne said quietly, picking up the photo standing proudly on top of the TV.
“Can’t see the sister on show anywhere,” Pete said.
The woman returned with a tray, the contents rattling precariously in her thin, weak arm. Pete gallantly rushed to rescue the tray and placed it on the coffee table in front of one of the sofas.
“I brought in a cup for you too, dear, just in case you changed your mind.” Mrs. Nicholls lifted the china teapot and poured the oak-coloured liquid into two cups.
The temptation proved too much for Lorne. A nice cup of English tea, perfectly stewed and poured from a bone china teapot into fine bone china cups, was her idea of heaven. “I’d love a cup, Mrs. Nicholls. Thank you.”
“Do call me, Doreen, please. Now, you mentioned something about my poor sister? Have you found her?” The woman asked, handing a cup and saucer to
Pete.
His eyes lit up when she also handed him a small plate with a scone spread thickly with butter and strawberry jam.
Pete peered at the cup and saucer as if they had come from outer space, but he took them without saying a word.
“Not yet. We wondered if you had any idea why she might have gone missing the way she did?” Lorne asked, before sipping her tea.
Doreen Nicholls’ withered hands nervously scrunched up her flowered apron. “She often goes off gallivanting, but she’s never been gone this long before. She usually contacts someone in the family if she’s delayed on a trip.”
“Forgive me for asking, Doreen, but did she have any enemies?”
The woman laughed. “Belinda, enemies? You must be joking. She was well-liked in her community. Even when Jack died four years ago, her social life never dwindled. Most women curl up in a shell when they lose their partner, but not my Belinda.” Sadness filled her eyes as she spoke.
Lorne suspected Doreen was also a widow and her heart went out to her. “What sort of work did her husband do?”
“He was a high flyer. Chairman of an oil company—travelled the world, he did. But Belinda never minded, as long as the money kept coming in. It didn’t bother her that he was never around. That’s why their marriage lasted as long as it did. He died in a helicopter crash. Terrible accident. It was taking off one of the rigs in a storm with gale force winds and went crashing into the sea. Poor things. They didn’t stand a chance. Four men died that day. Belinda was well-cared for, mind, if you know what I mean.”
“Insurance?”
“That’s right, dear. Two million pounds. That’s why she’s able to go off at a moment’s notice.”
“Does that bother you, Doreen?”
“Not in the way you mean, dear. I’m not envious of her money, although it upset me when I had to wait for over a year to have a hip replacement operation on the NHS. No, I suppose I’m envious of her zest for life, the fact that she’s able to go all around the world at the drop of a hat. Surely, all siblings find themselves envious at one time or another. Even twins. I suppose it’s worse, when they’re identical like us…”
CHAPTER NINE
“You’re twins!” Pete said.
“That’s right. I have a photo somewhere. Now, where did I put it? The memory takes a little longer to engage at my time of life.” Doreen got up and rifled through the drawers of the 1970’s oak bureau.
After locating the scruffy obviously well-loved family album, Doreen returned to her seat on the sofa alongside Lorne. Pete stood behind them, rudely looking over their shoulders, much to Lorne’s annoyance.
The resemblance was startling. From babes in arms through the generations, conclusive evidence the sisters were carbon copies of each other. Although to be fair, Belinda had aged more kindly than Doreen had, but Lorne put that down to Belinda’s more affluent lifestyle.
Unfortunately, there was no disguising it. From the woman’s build, Lorne was one hundred per cent certain they had just identified the mystery body lying in the mortuary. She groaned inside. How the hell was she going to find the right words to tell this frail old lady her sister had been brutally murdered beyond recognition?
Doreen was still leafing through the album, offering a little anecdote to every page she turned. “And this one was taken on the dodgems at Battersea funfair, nearly thirty years ago.”
Doreen’s concentration seemed to slip momentarily. “This is going to sound strange, but I’m going to tell you, anyway. The day we realised Belinda was missing, I had a weird feeling inside.”
“In what way, Doreen?”
“I don’t know if you’re aware, but some identical twins can be linked psychically to the other—symbiosis, I think it’s called. For instance, when I was in labour with my daughter Colleen, Belinda felt every contraction I had, at precisely the same moment.”
“How often does this kind of thing happen?” Pete asked, in an ‘I don’t believe a word of it’ tone.
“It happens pretty regularly—usually Belinda is the one who feels my pain, but on the odd occasion, it’s reversed. She had a tooth pulled out when she was sixteen, which had crumbled. Anyway, I was the one who ended up taking the painkillers for the day, instead of her.”
An unexplained sadness swept over Lorne.
Doreen was quick to spot the change in her. “What’s wrong, dear? You look as if you’ve just discovered you have a flat tyre or something.”
“I was just thinking how magical that must be, to be so close to a twin like that,” Lorne said, totally at ease with the woman, briefly forgetting Pete was in the room.
He cleared his throat reminding, her why they were there.
The astute woman asked, sensitively, “I take it you’re an only child, my dear?”
“No, I have a sister, but our brother died when he was four days old. He was my sister’s twin. My parents found the experience very traumatic. They refused to try for another child, after that.” Lorne’s eyes filled with tears.
“A great loss for both you and your parents, I would imagine,” Doreen said quietly, echoing her grief.
Reality pulled Lorne back in line. She took a deep breath and pushed the family secret back to where it belonged, locked in the vault of her memory bank. “It was a long time ago.”
Doreen straightened and asked, “Is there a particular reason you’ve come here, today?”
“That’ll be your psychic powers kicking in, then, Doreen.” Pete laughed at his own stupid insensitive joke. Lorne glared at him.
He shrugged a silent apology, and Lorne cleared her clogged throat. She gathered the woman’s right hand in her own. It was cold to the touch.
“After studying the photos you’ve shown us, Doreen, I’m afraid I have to tell you we may have found your sister after all.”
Doreen stood up and began firing questions as she paced up and down her living room, momentarily forgetting about her aching hip. “Oh, my God, where? Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Is she all right? When can I see her?”
Lorne felt the bile rising in her throat. She glanced at Pete for support. He gave her a ‘You’re the boss’ look. She was on her own—as usual, when that type of situation cropped up.
“Doreen, I need you to sit down, love.” The woman sat. “Like I said, we were unsure until you showed us the photos. Now…Well, now we think that the body found last night in Chelling Forest is that of your sister, Belinda.”
“I don’t understand. ‘Body’, you said ‘body’. Is she dead? Why wouldn’t you have made the connection as soon as I opened the door? She couldn’t have changed that much in a month. Everyone can tell within seconds we’re identical twins. Why couldn’t you?”
Lorne didn’t think telling Doreen her sister had been decapitated was a good idea. “I understand how upsetting this must be, Doreen, and I regrettably have to inform you that we believe your sister was murdered.”
“What?” The old woman gasped for air as the two detectives looked helplessly at each other.
“My tab…lets. Over there…” The woman’s blood had drained from her face. She anxiously pointed to the small bottle of pills sitting on the mantelpiece.
Pete was the first to react. Grabbing the bottle, he asked Doreen how many tablets she needed.
“One,” she replied, breathlessly.
The bottle had a child safety cap on it. Pete’s large hands fumbled over it without success. Lorne snatched the bottle from him and quickly tipped a handful of the tiny pills into her palm.
Doreen’s hand shook as she grabbed one of the pills and tucked it under her tongue.
The change was dramatic. Seconds later, the woman became calmer. Lorne ordered Pete to fetch a glass of water from the kitchen.
He returned with the glass to find his boss rocking the woman back and forth in her arms as if she were a child.
“I have angina. The shock must have brought on an attack.”
Once she’d recovered, Doreen insisted
they tell her about her sister’s death, but the detectives refused to divulge the horrifying injuries her sister had sustained, fearing the shock would bring on another attack. Lorne did, however, ask the woman if it would be possible to take a DNA sample from her, so they could use it to formally identify the victim. Doreen agreed.
Pete telephoned Arnaud, who dispatched a colleague immediately to the woman’s address.
In the meantime, Lorne telephoned Doreen’s daughter, explaining briefly what had happened and arranged for her to come over to be with her mother.
Ten minutes later, a blonde dishevelled-looking woman let herself into the bungalow. Instead of makeup, there were smudges of chocolate and flour on her face. Her eyes were swollen and red.
“Mum, are you all right?” Dropping to one knee, Colleen picked up her mother’s hand and tenderly kissed it.
Doreen weakly introduced the two detectives as she lovingly wiped away the chocolate from the younger woman’s cheek with the corner of her apron. “Oh, Colleen, whatever am I going to do? She’s dead. Your aunt is dead,” she babbled as tears rolled down her wrinkled cheeks.
“I know, Mum. We’ll get through this. I promise we will.”
Colleen showed the two detectives to the door.
“Your mother had a slight turn. We had to give her one of her tablets.” Lorne gave the woman one of her cards. “When someone arrives from pathology, they’ll take a buccal swab, instead of a blood sample. Ring me if I can be of any help.”
“That’s a sample from the mouth, isn’t it? When will the results of the DNA come through?” The young woman’s voice shook with emotion.
“That’s right. It’s less invasive, and it’s supposed to yield a higher amount of DNA. Results should be back in the morning. We’ll let you know as soon as we have them. Will you be staying here with your mother?”
“Yes. My husband is going to look after the children. A neighbour’s sitting with them at the moment. I’ll stay here for as long as Mum needs me. Oh my God, what about Oliver, my cousin? Who’ll tell him?”
“If you’d rather we did, that’s fine. I’ll sort it out. Let’s leave things as they are for now. As soon as the results are back, I’ll contact you first, then give him a call. We have his number at the office.”