Detectives Merry & Neal Books 1-3

by JANICE FROST

  Chapter 5

  Neal hoped that by not accompanying Ava to Warrior’s house, he was demonstrating that he still had confidence in her ability to do her job. Besides, it was imperative that any suspects be identified quickly. There was no time to lose.

  Neal approached the group of workers who maintained Stromford Cathedral’s magnificent stone and glasswork. They were a small workforce. Eight or nine people sat around a table for their morning break in the window alcove of the cathedral café. All of them were sombre-faced and subdued.

  He showed his badge and drew up a chair. “I’m Detective Inspector Jim Neal. I’m assuming you’re now all aware of the tragedy that occurred here in the early hours of the morning?”

  Heads nodded, glances were exchanged. Neal’s ten-year-old son, Archie, often asked him what superpower he would most like to have and Neal always gave the same answer: “The ability to read minds. It would make my job so much easier.”

  “First of all, I’m sorry. I know that some, perhaps all of you were acquainted with Gray Mitchell, and some of you may have known him as a friend.” So formal, Neal thought. Over the years, he had offered his condolences to many strangers. The job required him to keep a certain distance, but sometimes he felt that aloofness was not just inappropriate, it was also counterproductive. He was aware that Ava struggled with the whole issue of professional detachment and he had no great wisdom to offer her. “Think of it as a shield, not a shell,” he had said to her once, thinking of the consultant who had delivered the news of his father’s impending death. He had been clinical, almost cold.

  There were expressions of disbelief and head-shaking, some of them had tears in their eyes, others looked stoical. Who was genuine? Who wasn’t? How to tell? Neal cleared his throat.

  “It’s important to build up a picture of Gray Mitchell’s movements and state of mind in the days before his death. I’d be grateful if any of you who knew Gray well could tell me something about him.”

  A grey-haired black man in blue overalls took the lead.

  “I’m Vincent Bone. Supervisor and master stonemason. We all knew Gray by sight, of course. He was often in here with his partner, Leon Warrior or with his friend, Laurence Brand.” He looked over to the food preparation area behind the counter. “Leon and Gray are friends of the Brands, and Helen Alder. Out of our little group here, myself, Marcus and Clare and Angie knew Gray best.” He nodded at each person as he spoke.

  The youngest member of the group was a slight lad. He kept stroking his soul patch, either from nerves or out of habit. His brown hair was tied back in a ponytail, a navy paisley bandana knotted at his neck. He was wearing a cross-shaped earring. Neal guessed he would have at least one tattoo. Archie thought tattoos were cool. Ava had one on her hip. He had caught sight of it once at a social gathering of coppers at the pub. Neal wasn’t sure what he thought of it, but he had long ago stopped associating body art with the criminal underworld.

  “Marcus is our apprentice stonemason,” Bone said.

  “I got to know Leon and Gray through Laurence,” Marcus said. “Laurence is teaching me Latin.”

  Neal nodded. He looked around at the other people Vincent Bone had singled out. One of the women introduced herself as Angie Dent. She said that she worked in the cathedral gift shop, and was sorry Gray was dead. She described him as “a lovely bloke.” Angie had a peculiar accent that Neal couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t local. Neal prided himself on his ability to pinpoint a person’s home county when they spoke. Angie Dent had him puzzled.

  Next to Angie sat the only other female member of the group. Angie introduced her as her mate, Caitlin Forest. Caitlin looked utterly miserable. She sat with her head bowed, and only nodded as Angie spoke.

  “Last time I saw Gray was at his and Leon’s place last week,” Vincent Bone said. “Probably the same for all of us, am I right? It wasn’t exactly a party. Leon and Gray referred to these gatherings as their ‘soirees.’ There were about eleven of us there: me and Marcus, the Brands, Helen Alder, Angie and Caitlin and a couple of people Leon knew from before he went to the States. I can’t remember their names. Can you, Marcus?”

  The young apprentice shook his head. “You’d have to ask Leon . . . or Maxine and Helen might remember.”

  “Did Gray seem himself?”

  Marcus nodded. “Seemed okay to me.”

  “How about Leon? Did he seem alright? No problems with their relationship?”

  “They were sweet,” Marcus said. He nodded solemnly.

  Vincent agreed, then said, “there was a bit of an argument about a fellow they’d come across at the farmer’s market. From Leon’s old school. He used to bully Leon, and Gray . . . well Gray sort of confronted the fellow. Leon thought he should’ve left well alone. A bit of a reversal there. Gray’s normally the placid one.”

  “Confronted?” Neal could tell the man was holding back.

  “Gray might have thrown a punch, but maybe I remember that wrong. I had a few beers that night.”

  Marcus was less subtle. “No, I remember. Gray smacked him one.”

  “Are you going to treat this as a hate crime, Inspector?” Angie Dent asked.

  “We don’t know if it’s a crime, yet, Ms Dent.” But the idea had already occurred to Neal. Angie Dent was around his sister Maggie’s age, he estimated, in her early to mid-twenties and with a similar build. She was slim, almost boyish, but unlike Maggie she had bubblegum pink hair. Her eyes seemed cold to Neal. Perhaps that was owing to their rather washed out shade of blue — or the dim light.

  “Gray wouldn’t have jumped,” Vincent said.

  “No one can be sure of that, Vin.”

  Bone looked at Angie. Neal caught the slight twitch at the corner of his eyes. Neal suspected that Vincent Bone was not a big fan of Angie Dent.

  “Well I’m sure,” he said.

  “How about you, Caitlin?” said Angie. Caitlin was still looking abject.

  “I . . . I agree with the others,” she said. “Gray was a kind man. I don’t think he’d commit suicide because he would care too much about the people he left behind, especially Leon.” She looked at Angie, as if seeking approval.

  “Why’s that, Caitlin? Because he didn’t have, ‘I’m bipolar’ tattooed across his forehead?” Angie said.

  No doubt the others had been hesitant to mention this fact in case it prejudiced his judgement, thought Neal. He would have to be careful. Mitchell deserved not to be defined by his condition.

  “Leave her alone, Angie. She was only giving her opinion,” Marcus said. Caitlin was looking flustered.

  “Thank you for your time,” Neal said. The clock on the wall told him it was only midday, but already he felt like he’d done a full day’s work. There was little hope that his hangover would be letting up any time soon.

  Neal stood up, aware that everyone in the room was watching him. Outside, in the exposed cloisters, a biting wind cut through him, stinging his face and bringing tears to his eyes. His boots crunched over the grit-scattered path. Neal paused for a moment. The cathedral walls towered above him, touching a low sky swollen with snow.

  The door of the café squeaked and Vincent Bone stepped outside. He was wearing a brown leather Australian-style bush hat and a fur-trimmed sheepskin coat falling all the way to his workman’s boots. He tipped his hat as he approached Neal. “Peaceful spot, isn’t it? You can feel the Boss’s presence all around you.” Neal’s hung-over brain took a few moments to catch Bone’s meaning. As Bone walked past him, Neal wondered where ‘the Boss’ had been in Gray Mitchell’s hour of need.

  * * *

  Laurence Brand stood on the pavement outside Leon’s house, looking left and right though the street was a cul-de-sac. It ended in a high wall, overhung by yew trees from the graveyard on the other side. Two of the bedrooms in the house overlooked the graveyard and Leon often made jokes about the ‘neighbours.’ A terrible thought occurred to Laurence — soon Gray might be buried there. Perhaps he’d asked Leon t
o scatter his ashes somewhere in the US, where he had grown up. Or Leon might be one of those people who keep their loved ones in an urn on the mantelpiece. Laurence wondered what he would do with Maxine’s remains, should she die before him. Would it be weird to carry some of her ashes in his inside pocket so that his wife would always be close to his heart? As always, the thought of losing Maxine made Laurence tremble. All his married life he had lived with the fear that one day he would lose her.

  Over the past year Laurence had grown accustomed to the little social group that revolved around Leon and Gray. It consisted of him and Maxine, Helen Alder, Vincent Bone and the young people who worked with him — Marcus, Angie Dent and Caitlin Forest. Would Leon continue to host his little ‘soirees’ now that Gray was gone? Laurence felt a pang of guilt for thinking of his own pleasure, with Leon so recently bereaved. Then he had an even guiltier thought. Would Leon carry on his ghost tour business without Gray? Would he be looking for a new partner? Surely Laurence was the obvious choice?

  As he approached the cathedral, Laurence caught sight of the police vans still parked around the west front. He thought of calling in at the café to see Maxine, but he knew he would be in the way. There was no chance of Vincent Bone being there at this time either, so Laurence made his way to the Long Hill. As he walked along the cobbled street, Laurence began to relax. This was Caius’s territory. Two thousand years ago, they would have been standing in the heart of the Roman city. With his tour group, Caius liked to pause at this spot. He would point out the circles of stones along the road, marking where the columns of the forum had once stood. Then Caius would relate stories about his life in the city. Depending on the audience, he would embellish these with bawdy references to the brothels he liked to frequent.

  Though he was no actor, Laurence regarded his immersion in Caius’s persona as a kind of performance. His pithy depictions of his Roman’s life and times were, hopefully, entertaining, though occasionally he caught sight of someone stifling a yawn or rolling their eyes. At such times he could hear Caius uttering a long chain of expletives, of which Futue te ipsum (go fuck yourself) was the least offensive.

  It was no secret that Laurence had not taken to Leon Warrior and Gray Mitchell at first. He and Caius had regarded them as pillagers. He wondered who would be the first to tell the police about that. Laurence was suddenly uncomfortably aware that if Gray Mitchell had been murdered, he might be a suspect. Stercus accidit (shit happens), Caius whispered. Laurence’s Roman alter ego was not a timid man.

  Chapter 6

  “Mitchell’s injuries are consistent with a fall from a considerable height,” Ashley Hunt said as he walked into the inspector’s office. The pathologist stifled a yawn. From Hunt’s dishevelled appearance it appeared he had worked through the night to arrive at this conclusion.

  “Multiple fractures of the upper and lower limbs and ruptured internal organs.”

  A pause.

  Neal leaned forward in his seat. “And?”

  “It wasn’t a suicide, Jim.”

  “Go on.”

  Hunt slid a photograph across the table. Neal stared at the mess that was Gray Mitchell’s face and head on the dissecting table. Hunt then handed him a second photo, taken at the crime scene. Neal thought he knew what Hunt was going to say next.

  “Mitchell landed face down, yet there are two planes of injury, front and back of the skull,” Hunt said, pointing to the crime scene picture. “As well as an injury from the impact of hitting the ground, the victim has a laceration and depressed skull fracture to the back of the scalp. This injury isn’t consistent with his fall. It must have come from an assault. A blow to the back of the head administered with significant force, I would guess. No doubt the assailant was counting on the injuries being disguised by the fall. I’ll save the finer details for my report. Just thought you’d like to know what you’re dealing with.”

  “Thanks, Ash. I appreciate your getting this done so quickly.”

  “Business is a bit slow at the moment. Expect it’ll pick up over Christmas. That’s when the real suicides tend to peak. Not to mention the road-traffic fatalities.”

  As soon as Hunt had left, Neal called Ava Merry into his office.

  “Poor bloke. When I spoke with Leon Warrior yesterday, one of the reasons he gave for relocating to the UK was the high crime rate over there. Pretty ironic, isn’t it?”

  Neal nodded. “This is now officially a murder investigation. Horrific as that sounds, it will probably come as a relief to Mitchell’s partner and friends. They were all convinced Mitchell couldn’t have taken his own life.”

  “I got the impression Leon would have taken a suicide verdict as a kind of betrayal. And I think he would have blamed himself for being away, or for not having seen that Mitchell was depressed. Still, he won’t get any rest now until we find out who murdered his partner. Assuming it wasn’t him, of course.”

  It was true, Neal knew. For a person bereaved by a murder, there was no comfort. Even the ritual of the funeral would bring no sense of closure. Only justice could do that.

  “Is Warrior a suspect?” Ava asked. “Yesterday morning, when you saw him at the cathedral, he said he’d just got back from London, didn’t he?”

  “Yes. I assume you questioned him about his alibi when you went to his home yesterday?” Neal said.

  Ava avoided his eye. “Er . . . kind of . . . He was very upset and . . . well I didn’t really get the full details.”

  “I’ll take that as a no.” Neal didn’t even try to hide his displeasure. “For God’s sake, Merry. I know you’ve been on sick leave for a few weeks but I don’t expect to have to retrain you on the basics. Now Warrior’s had plenty of time to rehearse his story. And you’ve lost the opportunity of seeing his initial reaction when he’s questioned about his whereabouts.”

  As soon as he said it, Neal wondered why he was suddenly feeling so hostile towards Ava. He’d been glad to see her back on the job yesterday, even though it felt a bit awkward. Now, her first oversight had him rankled. Was it because he wanted her to be as good as he knew she could be? Because he didn’t want her to risk her career, making any more mistakes?

  Ava glared at him. She was making him feel like some kind of tyrannical eighteenth century naval commander. In truth, he hated all that stuff about rank. Neal wasn’t even keen on being addressed as ‘sir.’ But this was a serious omission. He didn’t apologise. Ava stomped out of his office. She didn’t exactly slam the door but she closed it with more than necessary force.

  Neal stared sourly at the door for a few moments. No doubt Ava was now talking with PJ (the nickname everyone used for PC Polly Jenkins) about his bad humour. All the previous day he had been hung-over. His ill-humour had no doubt confirmed their view of him as a dour Scot. The truth was that he had been feeling miserable lately. Jock Dodds had more than hinted that Neal needed a woman in his life. Neal couldn’t disagree. In his last case he had fallen a little in love with a suspect’s mother, Anna Foster, but only at a distance. He had seen her a few weeks ago near her bookshop. She had smiled at him and he’d smiled back. They had not stopped to talk. Then Maggie told him she had seen a ‘For Sale’ sign on the bookshop. Neal was sorry to see a bookshop go. That was all.

  He sighed and looked through the pane of glass on his door. Ava was stooped over PJ’s computer. He opened the door and walked over to join them.

  PJ and PC Dale had been assigned the task of checking through CCTV footage of the area around the cathedral on the night of Mitchell’s death. Neal had also instructed PJ to locate Ray Irons and run a check on his record. Irons was apparently a bully and a homophobe, and bullies did not take lightly to being publicly humiliated, particularly by gay men. Perhaps he had wanted to get even. Enough to lure Mitchell onto the cathedral roof and push him off? Surely, knifing him in the street would have been more his style

  “Grab your coat,” Neal told Ava. He made an effort to keep his tone neutral, even friendly. “We’re going to visit
Laurence Brand.”

  Neal had caught Ava exchanging glances with PJ and he was sure he’d heard PJ snigger. Probably discussing his sex life. No doubt they all thought his mood was down to needing a good shag. Neal couldn’t really disagree with them.

  * * *

  “You drive,” Neal said.

  Ava slid into the driver’s seat and turned the heater on while Neal scraped ice off the windscreen with the edge of his credit card. Ava was wearing one of those ridiculous woolly hats that looked like an animal’s head — a fox, Neal thought, or was it an owl? He hoped she intended to remove it before they met Laurence Brand.

  As Ava pulled slowly away from the kerb, Neal mused aloud, “A murder investigation involves known knowns, unknown knowns and unknown unknowns.”

  “Sorry, sir?”

  Sometimes Neal felt the gap in their ages widen. “I was paraphrasing. Donald Rumsfeld? Iraq?” A pause.

  “Say it again,” Ava requested. Neal quoted the former US Defence Secretary: “There are known knowns. These are things we know that we know. There are known unknowns. That is to say, there are things that we know we don't know. But there are also unknown unknowns. There are things we don't know we don't know.”

  “So the stuff we know, like Gray didn’t commit suicide, he was murdered, that’s a ‘known known,’ right?”

  Neal nodded.

  “And stuff like who the killer is and why he or she did it, would be known unknowns? Because we know someone killed him and we know there must be a reason but we don’t know what either of these are yet.” Another nod.

  “And the unknown unknowns are kind of like the things we don’t know we don’t know? Like, maybe a secret we couldn’t even guess at?”

  “Agreed.” Neal was impressed. “The unknown unknowns are the worst because no matter how much we uncover, however much we think we know, there can always be something we could never have accounted for. We can’t predict them or even see them coming.”

  “It’s a bit of a slippery one that last category, isn’t it? I thought I knew what I meant when I said that just now, but now I’m not so sure. It’s kind of like one of those things you think you’ve grasped only to find it slip away again and the more you think about it the more you get in a muddle.”