Three Little Maids
Patricia Scott
© Patricia Scott 2014
Patricia Scott has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published in 2014 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
This book was purchased by moggins,
if you did not get it from a moggins post then the person who uploaded it is a leech.
Table of Contents
Prologue
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Extract from Dying to Meet You by Patricia Scott
Prologue
The girl’s naked body lay on the windy cliff top, undisturbed by the bluebottles that buzzed and danced around her glassy, bloodshot blue eyes or the noisy sea birds that screeched overhead as the fishing smacks brought in their nets on the beaches below. Nathan Barty, about to start his first day of work experience in the Fish Market, stopped whistling when he tripped over her bare legs and then spilt the tuna sandwiches, and a rosy red apple, from his lunch box into the long grass as he raced full pelt down the winding chalky path into the seaside town of Harcombe.
The desk Sergeant behind the Police Station counter listened attentively to Nathan’s first encounter with a dead body; ‘She - she’s lying up there on the cliff top - with no clothes on. She’s dead an’ she looks really bad, serge,’ the schoolboy babbled breathlessly and cried because, worse of all, he thought he recognized her...
1
When your tenant in the top flat is a police officer you come closer to crime than on the library bookshelves, librarian Viviane Gordon thought as she heard DI. Jon Kent racing down the stairs to the waiting police car outside. Was it a homicide? It was an early call out on a sunny July morning. She stirred the sugar into her black coffee and checked the time. Seven fifty am. She smiled. It was almost like the old times when Bill would have gone along with him.
In the police car, Kent addressed the stocky sandy-haired man seated in the front seat next to the uniformed driver. ‘Give me a quick rundown, Turner. Has anyone identified the girl yet? Is she a local?’
‘It’s possible, guv. A schoolboy, Jimmy Barty, came across her when he took a short cut along the cliff top this morning. He took a quick look and scooted down town into the police station. He’s pretty shook up about it. The poor kid. He thinks she could be a girl from his school, Angela Carey.’
‘Okay. Fill me in as we go.’
‘The police surgeon’s up there now with the Scene of Crime officers and the Forensics are on their way.’
‘Where is it exactly? You say it’s on the cliffs past the East hill. I’ve not been up there yet.’
‘It’s near Lovers Leap, guv. A shade too near the cliff edge. Not considered an especially safe place to visit in the dark on your own. That doesn’t put ‘em off though.’
‘Lovers Leap, eh? Was she meeting a boyfriend?’
‘Who can say? She’s only a kid. Fifteen or thereabouts. Looks much older though.’
Ten minutes later, Kent left the car and accompanied by Turner walked over the cliff top to where the blue and white police ribbons, ruffled by the salty sea breezes like streamers, efficiently divided off the Scene of Crime from the public right of way. He looked down at the girl’s naked body, half hidden by the thick yellow flowering gorse and the sea pinks in the tufted grass near Lovers Leap; a place well used by courting couples. What wouldn’t he give for a cigarette just then as he met Turner’s troubled eyes. This was somebody’s daughter who lay there like a discarded Barbie doll.
‘God almighty.’
He blew his nose on a handkerchief, popped a strip of chewing gum into his mouth and bent over her, hands in his trouser pockets, to look closer at the bruise marks now visible on the slender white neck. He caught a hint of perfume as he did so, perhaps it was from the wild flowers; he couldn’t be certain.
She had a silky mass of curling silvery blonde hair like a shining aura round her head and her full bloodshot blue eyes stared vacantly up at the sun. A busy buzz of noisy bluebottles was paying close attention to the slack swollen tongue in her open mouth and a torn left ear lobe caked with blood. A shiny green beetle crawled slowly up over one bare dimpled knee...
Her clothes lay in a pathetically neat pile beside her. Kent put on disposable gloves slowly, leant over again and picked up her small plump hands and examined the nails on both carefully. She was hardly more than a child, he thought stretching his thin face into a long grimace. He uttered a four letter word quietly under his breath and said; ‘If she tried to defend herself at all the bastard’s left her nails as clean as a whistle.’
Police doctor, Felix Poole, stood back from his work and peeled off disposable gloves carefully before saying; ‘Looks like he certainly left nothing to chance. It’s a nasty business, Inspector.’
Kent nodded. ‘So what time can you give us? Any idea?’
Poole scratched his chin thought for a moment and shrugged. ‘About eleven p.m. last night or thereabouts. Hard to say. It was a very warm night. Death caused by strangulation at a rough guess. It wouldn’t have taken much pressure on her neck to kill her. There are those bruises on her neck. Coming out nicely. And under her body. She was moved after death to where she is now. She’s fair skinned, bruised easily.’
‘Was she sexually assaulted?’ Biro poised. Turner flipped a page over in his notebook and chewed on the peppermint sweet in his dry mouth vigorously.
‘Could have been. You’ll have to wait for the post-mortem.’
‘How old would you say she is? Fifteen - sixteen? Hard to tell these days.’
‘Fifteen, I’d say, sir. She’s a local schoolgirl. Her father’s a town councillor and the local Funeral director, Joseph Carey.’ The young police constable standing behind the tall detective volunteered this information with an uncertain grin on his freckled face.
‘Thanks, Townsend.’ Kent glanced at his watch. ‘Nine-ten. Have the parents called the station yet to say she’s missing?’
‘No, sir.’
Kent grimaced. ‘Turner.’
‘Guv?’
‘Take a woman constable with you to the Carey’s home. Someone needs to break it to the parents immediately. Police Constable Sherwood will do nicely. I can leave it with you?’
Stan Turner nodded. ‘Righto, guv.’
He groaned mentally, he wasn’t looking forward to it. His youngest daughter, Emma, went to the same school and was in the same class as the victim. He quelled the thought quickly that it could have
been her but Emma knew better than to take nocturnal walks along the cliffs at night accompanied or otherwise.
He’d had occasion to use Carey’s funeral services when his father died two years ago. Sombre, dark-bearded Joseph Carey reminded Stan Turner of Abraham Lincoln. The Carey family belonged to a local Lutheran chapel and they took their religion very seriously. Carey was a strict parent apparently from what Emma had mentioned at home and Turner couldn’t imagine him allowing Angela to stay out late at night. Come to that, he couldn’t see Carey allowing her out at all in the evenings, at least not on her own.
As Police Constable Sherwood got out of the police car, the pretty brown-eyed policewoman looked up at the grey stone creeper clad four storey Victorian house and giggled. ‘I’m sorry, Sergeant Turner. It makes me think of the Adams family. Looks like he makes a good living though.’ She giggled again. ‘You said he’s an undertaker, didn’t you?’
‘He is. And he’s about to find out that his daughter is dead,’ Turner said, ringing the chiming doorbell on the imposing oak front door, ornamented by a stained glass window panel. ‘So watch it, Sherwood. I want you to help me put Mrs Carey in the picture as delicately as possible. Ah, here she comes now, I think.’
A tall shadow appeared behind the stained glass and the door was opened. The blonde woman in the sleeveless, sea blue linen dress looked at them uncertainly.
‘Good morning, Mrs Carey?’ He showed his identification. ‘Detective Sergeant Turner and Police Constable Sherwood. May we come in, please?’
‘Yes.’ Her face cleared suddenly and smiled pleasantly. ‘Oh, have you come to advise us on crime prevention? Mr. Carey mentioned that he’d asked for a crime officer to call. We have had some robberies in this road lately. Won’t you come in please?’
‘Thank you. I’m sorry, Mrs Carey, but we’re here on other business than security. You have a daughter Angela?’ Turner said following Constable Sherwood into the highly polished parquet laid front hall.
‘Angela? She’s not home.’
She took them into the large sunny, open plan living-room. It was tastefully and expensively furnished in pale green and blue, and many local views in water colours were on display around the walls.
‘Angela’s staying over at her friend Stacey’s house. She hasn’t done anything wrong, has she?’ Her hand fidgeted with a large pearl stud earring. ‘Her father won’t like it if she has. She has been a bit wilful lately but that’s teenagers for you.’ She smiled at the police officers. ‘Have you any children, Sergeant Turner?’
‘I have, ma’am. Two boys and a girl. Mr Carey is he at home? We would like to speak to both of you.’
‘He’s at his place of business. Attending a funeral today.’ Her hand flew to her bare throat and she gasped. ‘Oh - something has happened to Angela, hasn’t it, officer?’ Her full grey-blue eyes showed alarm now. ‘She’s had an accident! She’s in hospital...’
‘No, Mrs Carey. Would you like to sit down, please?’
The front door was opened suddenly with a key. Mr Carey joined them briskly. ‘Ah! Good morning, Sergeant Turner. Your Inspector Kent has just called and advised me to come home. What is this about? Are you all right, Paula?’
‘Something has happened to Angela. Sergeant Turner?’ Mrs Carey gripped her husband’s arm. The police officers had their full attention now.
He nodded. ‘Yes, ma’am, I’m afraid it has. When did you last see Angela, Mr Carey? Did you know where she was going last evening?’
‘We did. And we know where she is now. What is this leading to, officer? Is our daughter in trouble? Is she? Paula, you should never have allowed her to sleep over at that girl’s house.’
‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Carey, Mr Carey. We have good reason to believe that Angela is dead.’ A gasp came from Paula Carey and she clutched her husband’s arm. ‘A young girl’s body was found lying on the cliff top near Lovers Leap early this morning. And was recognised by a witness to be your daughter.’
‘No-o she can’t be!’ Paula Carey collapsed into the nearest easy chair and, sobbing bitterly, buried her face in her hands. Joseph Carey joined her quickly, standing close by, his hand resting heavily on her shaking shoulder as he stared blankly for a moment or so out of the front bay window at the view overlooking the park.
‘There must be some terrible mistake, Sergeant Turner,’ he said in a monotone. ‘You have identified the wrong girl. Angela is staying at her friend’s house. She promised us never to go out on her own. We do not allow our daughter to go out with so many strangers about on her own. Not here at night. We have so many of these immigrants and wrongdoers out on the streets.’
‘I’m sorry, there is no mistake. With your permission, sir; Constable Sherwood find the kitchen and make some tea for Mr and Mrs Carey.’
‘Yes, serge.’
The young policewoman hurried out of the room and Turner took out his notebook and biro. ‘Can you tell me what time your daughter left the house last evening, Mr Carey?’
‘After the evening meal, about seven, I think, Sergeant. Mrs Carey can tell you, she gave her the bus fare into the Old town. Can you not leave all this till later? As you can see my wife is distressed.’
‘Sorry, sir. I shall have to ask you to identify your daughter. You understand it has to be done?’
‘I’m well aware of that, Sergeant Turner.’
‘And we will need to ask you both some questions later, sir. When it is convenient.’
The young policewoman came back into the room with the tea. ‘Tea, Mrs Carey? Milk and sugar?’
Paula Carey lifted her tear stained face and took a cup from the policewoman with a shaking hand, helped herself to the sugar and murmured; ‘Thank you.’
‘Can you tell us the name and address of the friend Angela that intended to spend the night with, please, sir?’
Carey took a cup of tea from the policewoman. It rattled slightly in his grasp, and sat down heavily on the long sofa. ‘She said… she was staying over with Stacey Flitch, a school friend. She disobeyed our wishes.’ Carey shook his head and groaned heavily. ‘I’m afraid that her mother has always been much too easy on the girl.’
‘Joseph!’ Paula Carey upset her cup in the saucer, spilling the tea onto the thick rush green carpet. ‘Please... don’t say that!’
‘Thank you, Mrs Carey, Mr Carey. We would like you, Mr Carey, to formally identify your daughter as soon as possible. Constable Sherwood will stay here with your wife until you return.’
Carey stood up. ‘I can come along with you now, Sergeant Turner.’
It hadn’t begun to sink in yet that he might be arranging his daughter’s funeral before long. But when it did his grief would be terrible, Turner thought as Carey accompanied him out to the car.
*
The girl lay in the small quiet room beside the mortuary. Her long hair shining silver under the bright ceiling light smelt faintly of perfume. Turner wondered how he would feel if he were put into that position as Carey came slowly through the door into the room to look down on the bruised, battered face of his daughter. Well used he might be to dealing with death daily. This was different. A more discerning eye could read the bluish skin tones and red spots as tell-tale signs marking strangulation as a cause of her death.
Silent for a second or so, he studied his daughter’s face. Carey nodded, cleared his throat and said; ‘Yes - Sergeant. This is Angela Carey, my daughter.’
He allowed himself to be led out of the room and to be taken back home to his wife in the police car. The trauma of his child’s death making him oblivious of the events to come.
He remained silent throughout the return journey.
When he came back into the living-room to re-join his wife and young son, he shook his head slowly. ‘I will have to delegate full responsibility for the Baines’ funeral, I think, to Philip Sharman, my dear.’
His wife nodded slowly, the tears welling up again in her eyes and the woman officer handed her another tissue. Gordon,
their eleven-year old son in pants and sweatshirt sat next to his mother, looking bewildered. His face anxious and tear stained, he twisted the damp handkerchief between his hands into a tight knot.
‘Phone in to the station, Sherwood. Do all you can to help Mr and Mrs Carey,’ Turner said when she followed him to the door. ‘It’s not easy but do the best you can.’
‘Okay, will do. Good luck. I hope the team can get onto some good leads today.’
‘I hope so too. We’re going to need it.’
She looked over her shoulder. ‘It seems to me that Angela was not as innocent as they thought, serge. I think her brother knows more than he’s telling.’
2
Viviane finished her second cup of coffee in her kitchen and pondered still over the reason for Jon Kent taking off so early. He was recently seconded to Harcombe and, obviously, wanted to give of his best. Bill, her husband, she knew would have been the same. In the Met he’d put everything he’d got into being a good cop and his reward had been a massive heart attack at the age of forty three, six years ago now, leaving her alone as a young widow at thirty nine, and a single parent to two teenagers.
It being Friday, she was working in the Central library, instead of touring the Sussex countryside on the mobile van, dispensing books to the housebound and those readers in the scattered outlying villages. And it promised to be another warm working day in town.
She’d cooked a full breakfast for Simon, now packing his case upstairs, and her clock said it was ten am. Meanwhile she had to get a move on. She was driving Simon to the railway station and going in to work at ten thirty, an hour later than usual. The library opened at half nine, and Friday being one of their busiest days, she couldn’t afford to take more time off
She called up the stairs, ‘Hurry up, can’t you? I’ll be late and you’ll miss the train.’
‘Okay, mum.’
Her eighteen-year old son was spending the weekend with his sister, Jill, a second year medical student in London. In two months’ time Simon was embarking on a police career like his father. Her daughter took after their grandfather, Doctor Terence Pilbeam, who had been a Police Doctor.
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