by Carol Wyer
‘What if we handled it differently?’
‘How? If I stay on the job he’ll find some way to punish me. This time it was the car and my laptop. Next time it might be me, or worse still, Jeanette. I’m going to drop it. Sheila will have to hire another private investigator.’
Ross ignored the look she gave him and pulled at a hangnail. ‘Okay, tell me about this case. I could do with a distraction from this.’
Robyn explained what she had found out from Tricia and what little she had gleaned from the spa.
‘Why are you so certain Miles Ashbrook was murdered?
‘Firstly, Tricia was convinced he would not go into a sauna. He refused to travel to hot, humid climates with her brother when they were an item. Secondly, he had a heart condition. If he’d intended to kill himself that way, he would not have undressed. He would have gone into a hot sauna fully clothed. And thirdly, the footage of him showering is plain bizarre. Why not get undressed in the changing room first?’
Ross flicked imaginary braces. ‘Flimsy evidence, DI Carter, flimsy. Tricia might be right, but how do you know Miles just didn’t like hot climates or travelling? If someone asked me to go to Borneo or Singapore, I might also refuse on the grounds of it being too humid. Not everyone likes humidity. He might well have a heart condition, yet is it likely that a few minutes in a sauna would aggravate it? He might have had a stressful day in the office and thought he’d unwind. He might have done this regularly, yet on this occasion he had a heart attack. Lastly, he might have wanted to keep his clothes nearby in case anyone spotted them and wondered what he was up to. I’m guessing it would be frowned upon for managers to be found enjoying the facilities at Bromley Hall out of hours. I rest my case, your honour.’
Robyn chewed at her bottom lip. ‘Damn, you’re right. Am I reading too much into this situation because I want Shearer to be wrong?’
Ross shrugged his shoulders. ‘Far be it from me to say, but he does have a way of winding you up. And others.’
‘I don’t suppose it would hurt for you to go to Bromley Hall and get a feel for it yourself. Chat to Scott Dawson. He’s taken on the role of general manager. See if you can get any information about the place or the people that might help me. At best, you’ll uncover a possible suspect or reason for Miles Ashbrook’s death, and at the very worst, you and Jeanette will have a nice weekend together.’ She punched him lightly on the arm. ‘It’ll take your mind off “Nutter”. You could do with a couple of days relaxing. It’s not every day you get the chance to go and chill out at a top spa for free. All expenses paid. My treat, remember?’
Ross forced a grin. Robyn was giving him what he called a cheeky sparrow look, head bobbing from side to side. She may have very little evidence pointing at a murder, but she really did have a brilliant sixth sense. If she suspected foul play he would do his best to help her prove it. Besides, he wasn’t one of Tom Shearer’s fans either. He had had several run-ins with him in the past. Shearer was abrasive and cocksure. It wouldn’t hurt if he were to be taken down a peg or two. He smiled at the prospect.
‘Agreed. Now, I’d better go home to prove I am fit and well and have not been injured in my “accident”.’ He drew quote marks in the air with his fingers.
Fourteen
His head throbbed again and his entire body felt sluggish, as if it could no longer be bothered. He almost turned over and went back to sleep. The dream world was far better than the real one.
He’d been dreaming about her. She was running towards him at Stowe Pool. He was trudging around the reservoir, now used only for recreational purposes, ignoring the ducks that waddled around the edge of the water, quacking noisily as he strode past. His eyes were on the cathedral with its three spires. He wasn’t at all religious; in fact, he was mentally scoffing at those poor misguided individuals who believed in a deity. As far as he was concerned, you lived and you died. There was no mystical power to direct, comfort or look after you. He’d proved it two nights earlier when he’d whacked his neighbour’s cat over the head with a spade. That’d stop it crapping on his lawn. Where was God then? Certainly not looking after his creatures.
He dug his hands into his pockets and hunched forward to make himself a smaller target for the increasingly cold wind that was blowing in his face, causing his eyes to water, and continued on the path towards Lichfield centre. He wished he were wearing something warmer. The bloody weather forecasters had promised a mild day and he had left home in unsuitable attire – a pair of grey tracksuit bottoms and a light, long-sleeved top. He hadn’t intended being out long. He had an appointment with the bank about debt consolidation again. There was no need to make an effort for the dopey twenty-year-old who would no doubt be assigned to deal with his ‘problem’. He fished about in his pocket for a cigarette, then out of the corner of his eye spotted her. She was dressed even more unsuitably than him, in a tight fuchsia-pink jogging vest that read ‘Believe in Yourself’ and black leggings. Her glossy blonde hair was held back in a pink headband. He noticed her because she smiled at him as she ran past. Not many people smiled at him, and certainly none like her. She radiated warmth and kindness, and he knew from the second he saw her that he wanted her.
He woke with a jolt, perspiration on his face. No, they were tears. He’d been crying in his sleep again. The ache of seeing her in his dream and the torture of knowing she was gone had been too much for his confused mind.
Focus. He needed to focus. He didn’t have much time. He rubbed at the damp patches on his cheeks, now angry. They owed him. They had to pay for their actions. And today was a pay day.
Fifteen
Robyn peeled off her running kit, dropped it into the wash pile and headed for the shower. Usually a run helped her think. Most of her best decisions and hunches had come to her as she pounded the streets. Tonight, the rhythmical slap, slap, slap of her trainers on the damp pavements had only served to remind her of Davies.
She enters the flat, face red from her efforts, and slips off her trainers. Davies is on the settee and greets her. A wrapper belonging to a family-sized bar of chocolate is beside him, and he has a giant grin on his face. She drops down beside him.
‘I don’t know how you stay so lean when you never seem to exercise.’
Davies pops the last piece of chocolate into his mouth and smirks. ‘An overactive metabolism,’ he replies. ‘Or, too much stress.’
‘You don’t get stressed. You’re the most relaxed man in the universe.’
Davies sits further back on the settee and drops an arm around her shoulders. He massages them, gradually easing the tension. ‘You make me feel relaxed.’
Robyn laughs. ‘Impossible, you calm me down. If it weren’t for you, I’d be permanently wound up, like a giant coiled spring.’
‘Then it’s a good thing I am around. Can’t have you uncoiling in the middle of a case.’
She feels the knots in her muscles being teased out and thanks the universe for giving her such a man.
Once showered, she dried off and, twisting a towel around her head, turban-like, entered her bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed.
She bent down and pulled out the drawer under her bed. The box was in the same place she had put it two years ago when she had tried to block out what had happened.
She lifted it onto the bed and ran a finger over the label on the lid: ‘Family Photographs’. She had little family apart from Ross and Jeanette. Her chance to have her own family had been snatched from her. She opened the lid and removed the first few pictures. They were of her and Davies in Paris, taken on a Valentine’s trip. Davies had surprised her with tickets and whisked her off on Eurostar for a romantic weekend that hadn’t disappointed.
Robyn felt the warmth of happiness that accompanied the memories, tinged with a sadness that they could never be recaptured. However, Tricia had been right about having proper pictures rather than those on a phone or a laptop. The sheer fact they were tangible made the memories seem more real. She gazed at Davie
s’s face, so calm, contented and dependable. She picked up the photograph, kissed her fingers and touched them to his lips. ‘Who’s going to stop me uncoiling now?’
She pulled out another, a photograph of them both with Amélie on holiday in Devon: Amélie standing on a pebbled beach, holding a bucket in the air. She’d been searching in rock pools and found a medium-sized crab that had waved its pinchers at her. She had triumphantly captured it and dropped it into her bucket, releasing it some time later. She was so like her father – curious, interested and always up for a challenge. That gave Robyn an idea for an outing with her. It could be ideal.
They had often had the girl to stay with them. Davies’s divorce from Brigitte, Amélie’s mother, had been amicable, and Brigitte had been extremely magnanimous towards Robyn when she learned she and Davies were dating. Amélie had taken to her too, and Robyn grew fond of the girl.
She replaced the photographs, unable to look at them all, and padded into the kitchen. On opening the fridge she decided she didn’t fancy the paltry offerings inside. Instead, she got a cereal bar from the cupboard and sat down at the kitchen table, blank A4 sheets in front of her. She picked up a black pen and began writing. Davies had taught her to write down everything she knew when puzzling over a case. ‘It’ll focus your mind,’ he had said. She began with the name Rory Wallis and the word ‘invoice’.
Sixteen
Robyn had gathered her team together in her office at the station. She had spent most of Saturday night and all day Sunday wrestling with the Rory Wallis case. It had been forty-eight hours since he had been found dead and she was struggling to come up with a motive or find a suspect. Her deliberations had also been punctuated with thoughts about Miles Ashbrook and DI Shearer. She was taking too much on. She knew she was, yet she couldn’t stop herself.
David Marker was the last to join them. He slipped in, mouthing ‘Sorry.’ She nodded at him and stood up. That was all the signal they needed. They sat quietly while she presented the facts.
‘Rory Wallis.’ She pointed to a photograph of a man with shoulder-length blond hair and green eyes, grinning widely, ‘Manager and barman at the Happy Pig. You’re all up to date with the basic details. What we don’t have yet is our perp. Let’s see where we are with this. Anna?’
Anna flicked through her notes and spoke with assurance. ‘We spoke to his next of kin, Mrs Annette Wallis, his mother. She couldn’t think of any reason he would be attacked. According to her, he was a quiet man who visited her every week and took her shopping on a Saturday when he wasn’t working. He wasn’t in any relationship, nor had been for a year. His girlfriend of ten years went to Australia after they broke up in 2013, and he’s not had a serious relationship with anyone since. He didn’t seem to have much of a social life either. He was a gamer and spent almost all of his free time online. His best friend, Stephen Cross, is also a gamer and lives in Barry, Wales. They only met up once or twice a year, although they were often online together. The world of gamers is vast, and Rory appears to have formed friendships online with people all over the world. Stephen confirmed Rory was very much a loner and had become something of a hermit after his girlfriend left him. Rory has a Facebook page, but he hasn’t posted for over two years, so no leads there.
‘He recently applied for a couple of positions at pubs in other areas. He was obviously thinking of moving on, which coincides with Suzy’s statement. Both were looking to find new employment. The Happy Pig has been having difficulties for a year, and Rory received written confirmation that the brewery was considering shutting its doors.
‘We interviewed regulars who frequent the Happy Pig and tracked down the stag party that was in the pub on Friday night. The group consisted mostly of local lads and we took statements from them all. We have yet to interview two members of the stag party, William Dixon and Kyle Copeland, who both live in Shropshire. They went to Amsterdam on Saturday night and are due back later today. In spite of being drunk that night, the majority of the young men were able to confirm that they left the pub at about eleven p.m. and moved on to Shenanigans nightclub. They were the last ones to leave and said the barman definitely locked the door behind them because they remember banging on it, for fun, asking to be let back in for one last drink.’
‘So our victim was alone in the pub that night,’ Matt commented. ‘Or was apparently alone. At some point, he might have let someone in.’
‘Or, someone else was already in the pub when he closed up?’ Mitz fiddled with his pen.
Anna nodded. ‘That’s possible, Mitz. There is a back door that leads to a yard, although it would be almost impossible to scale the high wall and come in that way without being spotted. The wall backs onto a car park. The only keys to the back door were on the same key ring used for the front door.
‘We took statements from the regulars. Most of them left early Friday night thanks to the noise from the stag do. None of them claimed to know Rory well. Comments ranged from “Barely spoke to him” to “He could be a surly bastard some days.” One person said Rory seemed to have lost his passion for the job and that he used to be more enthusiastic. Most preferred it when Suzy was on shift. All in all, no one seemed to know much about his personal life, or had a lot of good to say about him.’ Anna put the notes back on her desk.
Robyn spoke to the group. ‘The coroner’s report came through earlier and confirms Rory Wallis died through blood loss caused by a knife wound to the neck that sliced his carotid artery. The forensic toxicology report verified he had a very high blood-alcohol concentration, and there was sufficient evidence to suggest Rory Wallis had consumed several units of alcohol shortly before he was murdered. The bottle of champagne and glass both bore his fingerprints.’
She paused to let them digest all the information before pointing to the photograph of the invoice, also stuck on the whiteboard, along with the other crime scene pictures. ‘We have a typed invoice for Rory Wallis for the sum of £250,000 and the annotation “paid in full”. It would suggest that Rory paid the amount with his life. I want to know why. Who did he owe money to?’
Matt lifted his pad and spoke. ‘We ran a credit check and came across nothing out of the ordinary. He had a mortgage that he paid off regularly, and he owed a couple of hundred pounds on his credit card, but nothing stands out. I searched his computer and smartphone history and he didn’t frequent any gambling sites. He seems squeaky clean.’
Robyn stared at the board. ‘Anyone got anything else on him?’
David Marker coughed to draw attention to himself and spoke quietly. ‘I checked his employment history earlier. He completed a degree in social science at Keele University before taking a year out to travel. He returned in 2005 and worked at a pub in Hoar Cross and became bar manager at Bromley Hall in 2008.’
Robyn perked up. ‘Bromley Hall?’
‘He left there in 2013 and took up the position at the Happy Pig.’
‘Did you find out why he left?’
‘No, boss.’
She pondered this new information and wondered if the two cases could be linked in any way. It had to be nothing more than a coincidence. Rory would not have known Miles Ashbrook or come across him. Robyn was letting her desire to get one over on Shearer blind her. However, she didn’t trust coincidences. This might be worth prodding.
‘Look into that, please, and find out if Rory knew Miles Ashbrook socially, or from the past. Check with his mother and Suzy Clarke. Thanks.’ She got back to the matter in hand. ‘Rory Wallis was attacked and murdered by a person or persons unknown late on Friday night. He cleared the pub of customers by eleven p.m., then drank an entire bottle of champagne. Suzy confirmed they do not sell champagne, so either Rory or his assailant brought the bottle and glass into the pub. We have no idea of its significance. Were they celebrating? Did both drink from the bottle and afterwards did his attacker dispose of their glass? Or did Rory drink alone? Either way it seems odd, especially as he was teetotal.
‘We have recovered the
weapon that was used to kill him.’ Again she pointed at the board and a photograph of a knife. ‘The weapon had been wiped clean, so there were no fingerprints, full or partial, on it. No glove prints either. The lab confirmed there were traces of blood on the blade, along with ascorbic and citric acid. The blood type was A-positive, not an uncommon blood group. The coroner confirmed Rory Wallis’s blood type was A-positive. There is also a possibility the knife was one used by the bar staff. We asked Suzy Clarke to identify it and she admitted it looked exactly like the knife they use to cut lemons or limes. For the moment, this is all we have.
‘I’m going to request a reconstruction of some of the events that night, to see if it jogs any memories. There must have been a few people out on the town who maybe saw somebody acting suspiciously, or spotted them enter the building after closing time. I want you, Mitz, to interview the regulars again and all the men on the stag night, including William Dixon and Kyle Copeland. They might have seen someone hanging about and forgotten about it. David, find out some more about Rory’s work at Bromley Hall. Anna, could you check with the brewery? Ask about their relationship with Rory. I’m trying to establish if there was anyone at the brewery who might have dropped by to speak to him. Long shot, I know, but we need to look at every possibility, however bizarre. When you’ve done that, double-check Suzy’s alibi for the night. Any questions?’
She dismissed her team and called Matt Higham over.
‘I have one thing I can’t work out. Can I run it past you?’