by Carol Wyer
‘Have you dealt with that journalist, Amy Walters?’
Robyn cursed herself mentally. She’d got so involved with the case she’d forgotten about troublesome Amy. Honesty was the best policy, so she shook her head. ‘I didn’t wish to engage in verbal fisticuffs with her. She’s got a reputation for being keen, and anything that is said gets put into that newspaper. She only joined the paper eight months ago and already she’s been promoted to senior correspondent.’
Louisa pondered Robyn’s words. ‘Probably best to ignore her. I’m concerned this moniker might catch on – the Lichfield Leopard. I’ll talk to the media team and see how best to handle her and any others, especially now there’s a third murder.’
The phone rang shrilly. Robyn rose from her chair and left her superior to answer it. She found Anna glued to her computer screen watching the CCTV footage from the spa.
‘I’m going to have to take you off this case, Anna.’
Anna was too distracted to listen. She pointed at the screen. ‘I think I might have something here,’ she replied.
Robyn slid onto the chair next to Anna. ‘Show me.’
‘I’ve been through it several times now. I was watching this section where Miles takes a shower before going into the sauna, and when I rewound it, frame by frame, I spotted something I hadn’t noticed before.’ She pressed a key on her pad and the screen came to life. At first there appeared to be nothing of note; the camera recorded an empty pool, an empty spa and empty loungers. It rotated towards the shower in front of the sauna. It too was empty. Without warning, a shadow flitted across the screen.
‘Whoa!’ said Robyn.
Anna rewound it again, this time slowing the recording to run the film frame by frame. The shadow appeared again. Robyn copied the outline onto a piece of paper and examined it.
‘Have you ever seen those silhouettes that artists draw at the seaside?’ she asked. ‘This almost looks like one of those – like someone’s head. Although this is more like an alien’s head.’ She studied the domed cranium. ‘Got anything else?’
‘No, I’ve been through this so many times, I’m beginning to imagine people.’ She pointed at a sketch of the spa layout that Ross had sent. ‘I’ve calculated that the shadow was cast by light coming from here,’ she said, stabbing at the ice room. ‘According to Ross, there’s a light above it.’
‘So where do you think the person was standing at the time?’
Anna scrutinised Ross’s plan and drew pencil lines across it. She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I can’t be sure. If Ross’s information is correct, it appears somebody was standing outside the sauna, here.’
Robyn tapped the plan with one finger. ‘The control box is on that side of the sauna. What time was this recorded?’
‘Time shown is seven thirty. Spa was closed at seven.’
‘What was Miles doing at seven thirty? Do we have a record of his movements that night?’
Anna found the information on her screen. ‘He was in his office. He went to the dining room at six thirty and had a meal. After that, he returned to his office. He was seen by several people.’
‘Therefore it’s unlikely to be him at that time. Anna, I think we’ve got a glimpse of a murderer.’ Robyn slapped the palm of her hand on the table. ‘Come on, we’re going back to Bromley Hall.’
En route, Robyn called Matt. ‘Any joy with finding Harriet’s friends?’
‘I’ve located four who used be members of the same running club. I’ve contacted two of them already. Neither could tell me much more about her than we already know. She appeared to be content with her life. There didn’t seem to be any boyfriend or part-time lover. She worked part-time as a secretary at a legal firm in Lichfield. I’ve got an appointment later today to speak to the solicitor she worked for – Joyce Garner. I’m on my way to see Diane Roper, who was one of her closer friends and who also works in Lichfield, to double-check if there was anyone else in her life other than her husband.’
‘That’s great. Keep me informed.’
She ended her call. She was sure the murderer was working out a vendetta. So far he had murdered three people who were somehow connected to Harriet’s death. If he were targeting individuals who were working at the Hall at the time Harriet died, then there were several people he might blame for her death. How could she be sure any of them were safe? So far, he had killed the barman who had served Harriet drinks that night, the cleaner who had not locked the spa or ensured the floor was dry, and the woman who had accompanied her friend that day. She sat up with a jolt. She was forgetting someone – Alan Worth. She called David, who was still at the station.
‘David, can you contact Alan Worth for me? Check he’s okay. Mulholland can’t spare any officers, so would you mind watching over him for a while until I can convince Mulholland we really need assistance on this? Ask him to stay in his house for the time being.’
David sounded as tired as she felt. ‘Sure. Will do.’
She was about to make her next call when she spotted the answerphone symbol. She dialled and listened to Tricia’s message. She punched out Tricia’s number and spoke to her.
‘I’m investigating Miles’s death. I’m sending someone around to look at the USB and receipt and see if they offer us anything to go on.’
‘Thank goodness. I can’t bear not knowing exactly what happened to him. His mum is like a zombie at the moment. I’m round her house every spare minute. I’m worried about her. She’s not eating.’
‘Give her time. It’s a horrendous shock and he was her only child. She’ll really be glad you’re there, Tricia.’
‘I won’t leave her. I haven’t even been to the gym this week. I guess you haven’t either.’
‘No. There’s not been a second to spare. I’ve got to call Ross. He’ll be the guy coming to check out the USB, receipt and phone. He’s an expert in all of this. He’s a private investigator, so he’ll hopefully find out who Miles was seeing and determine if that person had anything to do with his death.’
‘Thanks, Robyn. This means a lot to me.’
She rang her cousin and asked him to drop by Tricia’s house.
‘I can’t spare anyone here, Ross. You’d be doing me a big favour.’
‘I’ll get back to you as soon as I have something.’
‘I need it quickly, Ross.’
‘I’ll work fast, don’t fret. Did you speak to that cleaner fellow?’
‘Couldn’t. He got run over on the way home from work.’
Ross knew better than to discuss cases, especially over a mobile.
‘Crikey. That scuppered things a bit.’
‘It certainly did. Okay, talk later. Someone’s trying to get through.’
David Marker was on the phone. ‘Can’t reach Alan on his mobile or his landline. Want me to head down?’
‘Hang fire for the moment, David. I’ll send Matt because he’s closer to Knowle.’
She called Matt and explained the change in plans before turning her attention back to the CCTV footage. The cases had to be entwined in some way. Her intuition was rarely wrong, although she was reminded of the fiasco the week before when she had identified Nick Jackson by his luminous green bag; sometimes her instincts failed her. She was sure the net was tightening on their killer, but she really didn’t want a high body count before they finally uncovered him. She chewed the inside of her cheek while her mind churned the possibilities around. Robyn was sure of only one thing – if he hadn’t already, the killer was going to strike again, and judging by how quickly he was acting, it would be soon.
Forty-One
The black Bentley Continental pulled into the drive. Alan Worth yawned loudly as he aimed his key fob and waited for the door of the four-bay garage to lift automatically.
It had been a very successful night. They had bagged a table overlooking the canal and watched the boaters as they trundled past. Alan could still savour the scallops he had eaten, along with a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape Blanc, which
had washed them down perfectly. He and a friend, Francis Hamilton, who usually partnered him at golf, had taken a taxi into Birmingham where they had gone to the theatre, finally rounding off the night at the roulette tables at Grosvenor Casino on Broad Street. They’d both struck lucky, although Francis had bet all his winnings, and more, on the tables, and turned the night into morning trying to win back what he had lost. They had tumbled out of the casino at five o’clock, Francis claiming as usual that he would never gamble again. Unlike his friend, Alan had cashed in his chips and collected his thousand pounds in winnings. The notes were currently filling his wallet nicely.
The garage door was now fully open, the lights inside had come on and he manoeuvred the Bentley into place and yawned again. The effects of the wine had worn off and had left him feeling lethargic. He was getting old. There was a time when he could have stayed out all night drinking; nowadays anything after one o’clock was pushing it. He wished Francis had not kept him out all night. It was seven in the morning. He should be getting up at this time, not going to bed. Alan swung one leg out of the car and halted. A movement had caught his eye. There was an animal in the garage. It was most likely a cat or a fox that had followed him in. He hoped it hadn’t decided to hide behind the boxes and clutter at the far end of the garage or he’d have a devil of a job coaxing it out, and he really wanted nothing more than to go to bed.
He moved quietly to the rear of the garage, head down, scanning for further movement. He couldn’t see the creature. Maybe it was a rat. That would be worse. He’d have to call in the pest controllers. He decided to let it be and deal with it later after he’d had some sleep. He moved towards the side door when, without warning, he felt an arm tighten around his neck, crushing his windpipe so he couldn’t speak. He was being pulled backwards and was powerless to break away from his attacker. He reached up with both hands and tried to prise the arm away, yet was unable to move it. It was like a gigantic python, wrapping itself around his neck and slowly crushing his windpipe. He couldn’t catch a breath and began to panic. His assailant was squeezing the life out of him. The automatic lighting system in the garage flicked off, leaving the pair in complete darkness. Alan felt a rush of desperation and kicked backwards, catching his attacker on the shin. His assailant cursed and loosened his hold enough for Alan to yank the man’s forearm away and bite it hard. He was released immediately and fumbled towards the side door. He knew his way around in the dark. He hoped the man intent on killing him did not.
Alan put out his hand, felt for the wall, groping his way, heart thudding wildly. He was sure it was only a few paces to the door. He only had to get to it and he could escape this madman. He couldn’t hear his attacker, and that panicked him further. What if the man were already in front of him? Fear spurred him on and he moved faster, desperate to escape. Then his foot caught something that clattered in front of him and he stumbled over it, falling heavily on the floor. He had forgotten about his golf bag standing near the door. He had intended moving it earlier, but had been running late for his night out and had left it out rather than put it back in its usual place. The clubs had spilled out onto the floor, and as Alan pushed himself up, he knew he had made a monumental error.
The intruder tugged him to his feet. In the darkness, Alan could feel the man’s anger radiating from him and knew he didn’t stand a prayer.
Forty-Two
‘Just one moment, please.’ Ross waited while Frieda tapped away at her computer keyboard. He could picture her now: tall, blonde and blue-eyed. She had sounded uber-efficient when he rang the Hideaway Hotel.
‘Certainly, Mr Cunningham, let me assist you with that.’ She had a charming accent that made Ross think of mountains and the midnight sun. He’d conducted a quick search on the hotel and found its website. It was a delightful boutique hotel, which appeared, at first sight, to be a smart, private residence. The receptionist was certainly polite and attentive. The typing stopped and she spoke again, ‘I see Mr Ashbrook made the reservation.’
‘Can you tell me who he was with that evening? Did they both sign the register?’
Frieda sounded less helpful. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Cunningham, I’m not able to discuss such matters without some proof of your identity. I’m sure you understand.’
Ross sighed. ‘Yes, Frieda, I understand. Can you just confirm that if I make the journey all the way to London and hand you my investigative licence, you will be able to tell me who Mr Ashbrook was with that night?’
There was a silence as Frieda struggled to be polite and helpful at the same time. Eventually she answered, ‘Yes. I will be able to give you a name, and if you have a photograph of the gentleman you are looking for, I might be able to identify him for you too.’
‘In that case, I shall see you as soon as I can. Thank you, Frieda.’
Frustrated by the call, Ross checked the pay-as-you-go mobile to see if it had powered up sufficiently to turn it on and, seeing it had, went straight to the contact list and felt a frisson of excitement. There was only one contact – with the initials ‘JJ’. Tricia was correct when she said Miles was keeping secrets. He clearly didn’t want anyone to know about this person. He thumbed the screen until the display revealed the messages. There were only two messages in the inbox, both from JJ, and both were sent the night Miles Ashbrook died. The first read:
Ten minutes. That’s all I ask.
The second, sent at eight ten, stated:
You know where to find me. Meet me there.
He checked the sent messages, where he found one word in reply to the messages:
Okay.
There was nothing else on the mobile, and Ross put it to one side. He slid the USB stick into his laptop and scratched at his stubble. The USB contained one document sent from Bromley Hall’s head office in Hong Kong. It was a list of names of the people who were to be dismissed from Bromley Hall, all of them before the end of November. It seemed peculiar that Miles had kept only one document on the USB. He clearly didn’t want the list to fall into the hands of anybody at the Hall. It all seemed a little cloak-and-dagger, unless Miles had a good reason to keep the list secret.
Ross spun around in his swivel chair and rang Robyn, leaving a message for her. He admired her nerve. Once she got her teeth into something, she wouldn’t let go. That cousin of his was a tough cookie, and she’d need to be. Tom Shearer was guaranteed to give her grief for some time once he got wind of this.
The rain had stopped and given way to grey clouds, occasionally broken by rays of weak sunshine. Matt Higham pulled off the M42 and drove the leafy roads to Knowle, an affluent district of Solihull. Matt wished he could afford one of the places on this route, with its wide roads and green hedgerows. Alan Worth’s house was not far from the town centre. Within a few minutes, Matt had pulled onto the drive and was knocking at the door. No one was at home. Matt peered through the front window into a study, sparsely furnished with iron statues of nude women. He rang the doorbell again, stood back and checked for any movement or indication someone was inside. There was nothing. He walked around the back of the house, cupped his hands over his eyes and peered through the conservatory window, finding only wickerwork chairs and several tall yucca plants. Worth was not at home.
He was wandering back to his car, admiring the huge buxus hedges that had been expertly shaped into balls, when a faint sound caught his attention. It was a low, purring noise. He walked back to the house, head turning this way and that to trace its origin. It was coming from the garage – a large wooden structure resembling a Swiss chalet, with painted wooden slats and a tiled green roof. As he got closer, the noise became clearer. It was the hum of a car engine. The sound galvanised him into action and he tugged at the door handle, but the up-and-over door was clearly locked. The engine continued to rumble. Matt banged on the door and shouted – nothing.
The thought hit him quickly – Worth was in trouble. The killer had already got to him. Matt hammered on the door one last time, got no response and raced around
the building, searching for another means of entry. He found a side door that was also locked. He heaved his shoulder against it and felt it give. He whacked against it again, and then a third time before it finally gave way. He booted it open. He held his breath and rushed inside, almost colliding with a golf bag on its side, its clubs strewn about the floor. Alan Worth was lying close to the door, head turned towards him, eyes shut. His feet and hands were bound with tape and Matt’s eyes widened in surprise when he saw what was in his mouth – someone had stuffed it with fifty-pound notes. There must be a few hundred pounds sticking out between his lips. As he stared at the sight, Matt noticed a faint movement in Alan’s eyelids. The man was still alive.
Matt checked him over for injuries before lifting him gently. He carried the man clear of the garage and, pausing for a moment, took a breath of fresh air. He’d ingested some of the fumes, but hopefully not enough to do any serious damage. Carbon monoxide was a killer, and heaven knows how long Alan Worth had been exposed to the fumes in his garage. Matt knelt beside the man and checked for breathing, relieved when he felt the faintest of pulses in the man’s neck. He rang the emergency services. If only Alan could stay alive and speak to them, they might be able to trace whoever had done this.
He left the door open to clear the garage of fumes, ingested as much fresh air as he could and, holding his breath, sprinted back inside to shut off the car engine. The garage not only had ample space for the large vehicle but also housed gardening tools, a lawnmower and various storage containers. Standing inside he understood how Alan Worth had cheated death – several wooden slates had warped, and light filtered through the gaps into the garage. Some of the toxic fumes had escaped. One large gap was behind a low shelf containing walking boots, where Alan had been lying. He had discovered it and placed his head near it to breathe in cleaner air. The killer had been sloppy. This was not an efficient way to murder. Matt wondered why he had not been more thorough in despatching his victim. Was he becoming complacent? Matt would voice his opinions to Robyn. There was no way of knowing how much damage had been caused to his lungs, heart or brain, but for now Alan Worth was alive. Only time would tell how fortunate he had been.