The Corfe Castle Murders (Dorset Crime Book 1)

by Rachel McLean

  “Thank Christ for that. Let’s get to the crime scene.”

  Crystal Spiers was sitting next to the police cordon when they arrived, her face hard.

  “Ms Spiers?” Lesley approached her, cursing the tussocky grass. Her shoes already had mud stains.

  “That’s me.” Crystal eyed Mike. “But you already know that. Where’s your mate?”

  “My name’s DCI Clarke,” Lesley said. “DC Legg and I have some questions we’d like to ask you.”

  Crystal leaned back. Her hands were splayed on the grass behind her and she might have been sunbathing, enjoying the midday sunshine. Apart from the look of thunder on her face.

  “I’ll talk to you if you get these bastards off my dig site.”

  “It’s a crime scene,” Lesley said. “And I’m sure they’ve already told you that you don’t get anyone more careful with a search than a CSI.”

  “It’s not a search, it’s an excavation. Anything they move will threaten the integrity of our findings.”

  “We haven’t disturbed the soil inside the tent.” Gail stood outside the tent where Archie’s body had been found. “You don’t need to worry.”

  Crystal pushed herself up to standing.

  Gail put her hands on her hips. “Look, lady. Most of the evidence in there is blood spatter. Your mate got a… you don’t need to know that. But we don’t want to disturb the evidence any more than you do. We’re measuring, photographing. Triangulating.”

  “You’re stomping around on land where there could be important artefacts just below ground level.”

  Gail peeled off her gloves and rubbed her hands. “This field is a public right of way. People have been stomping around on it for centuries. And we’re using protective plates. That’s the only place we stand.”

  “Thanks, Gail,” Lesley said. This argument could go on forever. She looked down at the grass: no way was she sitting on that in her peach skirt.

  “Gail,” she called, disturbing the other woman before she re-entered the tent. “Can we borrow your car?”

  Gail frowned. “Going somewhere?”

  “Just want a place to sit.”

  “Fine.” Gail threw her keys to Lesley. “Don’t leave a mess.”

  Lesley had been in Gail’s car last night. She knew that any rubbish she or Mike added would be unnoticeable in the litter-strewn interior.

  “We won’t keep you long,” she said to Crystal, and led her to the car.

  Lesley got in the driver’s seat, with Crystal beside her and Mike in the back. He was surrounded by crisp packets, sweet wrappers and empty juice cartons.

  “Thank you for giving us your time,” she said to Crystal, who folded her arms. “Had you known Archie Weatherton long?”

  Crystal gazed out at the trees that separated them from the crime scene. She twitched all over, like she was crawling with ants. “I first met him in 2003, at a conference. But this was the first time we’d worked together. I specialise in early Medieval history, he’s more of a technical guy. Was.”

  “How long have you been working with him on this project?”

  “Two months, ten days.”

  “That’s very precise.”

  “I have a good memory.”

  “Have the rest of the team been here for the same length of time?”

  “Patrick, yes. Laila came along afterwards. Five weeks ago.”

  “And in that time, she established a relationship with Archie?”

  Crystal shrugged. “It’s a close-knit environment. Things tend to intensify pretty quickly.”

  “Did you and Archie ever have a relationship?”

  “God, no. I don’t go for younger men.”

  “How was your relationship with Archie?”

  Crystal glanced at Lesley, then looked back at the trees. “Fine, I guess. I mean, he could be an irritating bugger, but we got on OK.”

  “Irritating? How?”

  “He thought he should be in charge. He was doing more to bring in funding, I admit. But it was my project. I’ve been lobbying the National Trust for access to that site for over sixteen years.”

  “We’ve been told that Archie was supposed to have been away from the village this weekend. A funding meeting, in London.”

  Crystal shook her head. “The funding meeting was real enough. Scheduled for Monday afternoon.” She pinched the skin above her nose. “I’ll have to rearrange it. But he hadn’t gone to London for the weekend.”

  “Where did you think he was going?”

  Crystal turned to Lesley. “He’s got a wife, in Bristol. The others didn’t know. Especially not Laila.”

  “But he told you?”

  “Like I said, I’ve known Archie on and off for years. I met Susan a couple of times. She’s nice, if dull. He told Laila he was divorced.”

  “But he didn’t tell you that?”

  “Academic circles are gossipy. I’d have known.”

  “And you didn’t tell Laila?”

  “None of my business.”

  “Do you think there’s a chance Laila might have found out about Archie’s wife?”

  Crystal shoved her fingers between her knees. It was chilly in the shade of the trees. “They had an argument on Wednesday night. It could have been about that, I suppose.”

  “You didn’t listen in?”

  “I don’t know what you think we’re doing in that cottage, Detective. But we respect each other’s privacy. Patrick and I went to the pub. Save having to listen to them going at it hammer and tongs.”

  “They argued a lot?”

  “It was a volatile relationship. She’s immature. He was jittery. They’d row, and then they’d make up. And you can believe me, Patrick and I did not want to listen to the making up.”

  Mike leaned forward, putting his weight against the back of Lesley’s seat. She’d forgotten he was there.

  “So if Archie didn’t go to London and he didn’t go to Bristol, where did he go?” he asked.

  Crystal shrugged. “Beats me. He left the cottage early on Saturday morning. I was the only one up.”

  “What time was this?” asked Lesley.

  “About six thirty.”

  “Did he normally leave that early, when he went to visit his wife?” Mike asked.

  “Sometimes. Wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.” Lesley made a mental note to have Susan Weatherton questioned. She wondered how long it would take to drive to Bristol.

  “Where were you between Saturday morning and three o’clock yesterday afternoon?” she asked Crystal.

  “Saturday I was in the cottage, mainly. Laila and Patrick were both there in the morning, then Patrick went out for his breakfast. Laila can vouch for me till half six in the evening, then I went out for a walk.”

  Lesley wondered how long Laila had stayed in her room. She wouldn’t have known if Crystal had stepped out.

  But then, what was Crystal’s motive? She had no reason to kill her colleague, certainly not compared to his wife and mistress.

  “What about Sunday?” Lesley asked.

  “In the cottage till early afternoon. Then I went for a walk.”

  “Where?”

  “To Swanage. Over the downs.”

  “Alone?”

  “I didn’t kill him, Detective. Why would I have wanted to?”

  Lesley nodded. “Thanks for your time. We’ll be in touch if we have more questions.”

  “I’d rather you gave me my bloody dig site back.”

  Lesley said nothing, but got out of the car and gestured for Crystal to do the same. She beckoned to Mike, and the two of them walked back to the village, Lesley wondering how closely Patrick’s story would match Crystal’s and Laila’s.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dennis hurried along West Street, PC Abbott at his heels. When they arrived at the Greyhound Inn, he turned to face her.

  “I’ll do the talking. I’m CID.”

  “Sarge.”

  He nodded: Good. He turned away from her and en
tered the pub.

  It was dim inside, the glare of the morning only emphasising the contrast. An elderly couple in matching cagoules sat by a window enjoying a fry-up. Two old blokes sat at the bar, nursing cups of tea. Dennis wrinkled his nose. He couldn’t understand the need to come to a pub before lunchtime, even if no alcohol was involved.

  The female half of the elderly couple tapped her husband’s arm. He looked up with a clatter of his knife and the two of them peered at PC Abbott. She gave them a friendly smile in return.

  Not for the first time, Dennis wondered why the DCI had lumbered him with this uniformed woman instead of his most trusted detective constable, who she’d left languishing at the office.

  “Talk to the barman,” he told PC Abbott. “Find out if Donnelly’s here. I need to make a call.”

  He stepped out into the beer garden. It sat in the shadow of the castle, with a view straight up the slope to its walls.

  His call was picked up on the second ring. “Sarge.”

  “Johnny, how’s it going? Not losing your mind stuck between four walls, I hope.”

  “I’d be lying if I said this was what I signed up for.”

  “Sorry, mate. I’ll make sure she doesn’t do it again. How are you getting on tracking down Weatherton’s associates?”

  “His wife has had a visit from local police. You know about that. I’ve tracked down his boss at Bristol University. Dr Alman. Not sure if we need to set up an interview with her.”

  “We do.”

  All these women in charge, Dennis thought. He wished more of them were like his wife Pam.

  “Anything else?”

  “Nothing yet, Sarge. I thought I’d see if I could get Archie’s financial records. Maybe if he was having money troubles…”

  “This wasn’t suicide, Johnny, if that’s where your thinking’s going.”

  “I thought it best not to rule—”

  “You’ve seen the photos. An injury to the back of the head that severe, that’s never self-inflicted. We’re looking for a murderer.”

  “Who does the boss think did it?”

  Dennis frowned. “DCI Clarke doesn’t think anything yet. She says we have to keep an open mind. For my money, the girlfriend is suspicious.”

  “Laila.”

  “She slept with a married man, Johnny. She lied about her age. Goodness knows what else she’s hiding.”

  “OK, Sarge. If that’s what you think…”

  “Have you got a time for the PM yet?”

  “Pathologist says this afternoon.”

  “I’ll let the DCI know.”

  “Anything else you need me to be working on, Sarge?”

  Dennis checked his watch. “You’re fine. Take an early lunch break. We’ll be back by the time you’re done.”

  “No problem.”

  Dennis hung up to find PC Abbott hovering behind him, in the doorway to the pub.

  “What?” he snapped.

  “Patrick Donnelly’s waiting for you, Sarge. Says he hasn’t got all day.”

  “Well seeing as we’ve closed down his place of work, he has, hasn’t he?”

  He pushed past the constable. He was irritated with her, irritated with his arrogant new boss, irritated with himself. If only DCI Mackie hadn’t…

  “Sergeant!” A short man with dark floppy hair waved to him from the other side of the pub. Dennis sighed and approached him, ignoring Mr and Mrs Cagoule whose eyes followed his every step.

  “Patrick Donnelly.”

  “You must be Sergeant Frampton.” Donnelly gestured towards PC Abbott. He had a broad Irish accent. “Your charming colleague here told me all about you.”

  “I need to ask you some questions, about Archie Weatherton. And your other colleagues.”

  “Of course you do. I’m happy to help.”

  Dennis pulled out a chair. This man was open, affable. He couldn’t imagine him sneaking around people’s bedrooms.

  “Thank you for taking the time to speak to me.” Dennis didn’t acknowledge PC Abbott, who had sat down next to him. What was the point in bringing a uniformed constable to a witness interview? The girl would be better off on traffic duty.

  “My pleasure,” said Donnelly. “Such a tragedy about poor Archie. Can you tell me how he died, exactly?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t right now. Sorry.”

  Donnelly gave him a knowing nod. “Of course. Completely understand, fella.”

  “Did you know Mr Weatherton well?”

  Donnelly screwed up his mouth in thought. He took a deep breath. “Well, I shared a house with him for more than two months. I know what brand of toothpaste the man used. And I know more than I’d like to about his sexual preferences, from hearing what he got up to with that Laila. Those cottages aren’t as solidly built as you’d like to think.”

  Dennis didn’t want to know about Archie Weatherton’s sexual proclivities. The man should have saved that sort of thing for his marital bed.

  “How was his relationship with Laila? Smooth? Rocky?”

  Donnelly laughed. “Tempestuous, I’d say. But then, she’s a tempestuous kind of girl. Poor Archie didn’t stand a chance.”

  Dennis raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean, didn’t stand a chance?”

  Donnelly’s eyes widened. “Oh I don’t mean that, fella. She didn’t kill him. At least, I don’t think she did. But that’s your job to work out, isn’t it? No, I just mean that when she turned her sights on him, he was dead meat. Not real dead meat. There I go, shooting my mouth off. You know what I mean.”

  Dennis was unsure what Donnelly did mean. But he wasn’t saying Laila killed Archie. These were just turns of phrase, weren’t they?

  No. Dennis shook his head. Donnelly didn’t have a subtle bone in his body, from what he’d seen.

  “How long had Laila been Mr Weatherton’s mistress?” he asked.

  “Mistress. Now there’s a grand word. Now, she started in the second week of May, I remember because that’s when we got started with the second trench. Then after she… after a week or so, the two of them were an item. Not sure how it started up, though.”

  “Did something significant happen in her first week?” PC Abbott asked. Dennis gave her a disapproving look.

  Donnelly turned his smile on her. “Why would you think that?”

  She looked down at her notepad. “You said ‘after she,’ and then you changed tack and said ‘at the end of her first week.’ Did she do something, in that first week? Something to do with Mr Weatherton?”

  Donnelly leaned towards her. “It’s just my way of talking, sweetheart. You have to ignore me.” He turned back to Dennis. “Fat lot of good I am as a witness, eh?”

  Dennis returned his smile. He remembered what Laila had said. “Laila told us she saw you in her room, the room she shared with Archie.”

  Donnelly looked taken aback. “No. When?”

  “Yesterday afternoon. Before she found his body. She seemed to think you were looking through his things.”

  Donnelly reached inside his t-shirt and fingered a chain around his neck. It caught the low sun through the window: a crucifix. Dennis instinctively patted his own, under his buttoned-up shirt.

  “She came back to the cottage at about half past two, maybe a bit later. I was in my room, reading a book. God’s Library, you won’t have heard of it. I heard her slamming around, then she came upstairs.”

  “Did you speak to each other?”

  “I made a complaint about the mess in her room. She’d left the door open and I could see dirty plates inside. It never got like that when Archie was around, but we had a rodent problem. If she kept on leaving food in her room…” He shivered, then broke into a smile. “I’m sure you can imagine, Sergeant.”

  “I can.”

  Dennis had no idea what it would be like to have a rodent problem. His own modern house was immaculate; Pam took good care of it. He’d never taken food upstairs in all the years they had lived there.

  “So you wer
en’t in Laila and Archie’s room?” PC Abbott asked. “You weren’t searching through Archie’s things?”

  Dennis wished he could kick her under the table without getting into trouble for sexual harassment. He gritted his teeth.

  Donnelly held his arms out wide in a gesture of innocence. “The girl’s lying to you, Constable.”

  “Something she does a lot?” Dennis asked.

  Donnelly laughed. “You have no idea, Detective. You have no idea.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “So where will I find the post-mortem?” Lesley asked Dennis as they drove back to HQ.

  “Poole Hospital,” he told her. “Take the A351 and the A35 for Poole then follow the signs. You want me to accompany you?”

  “You go back into the office. I want to know all about Archie Weatherton’s personal and professional circumstances.”

  “Boss, we’re doing all this digging into Weatherton and his colleagues. You haven’t considered it might have been nothing like that?”

  “How so?”

  “Maybe he got into a fight. Annoyed somebody in the pub. Could be random.”

  “How many random murders do you get each year, in Corfe Castle?”

  “None, but…”

  “The Isle of Purbeck as a whole?”

  “Occasionally, in Swanage…”

  “How many?”

  “One. Two years ago.”

  “Exactly.” She indicated to leave the A352 and approach the office. She was beginning to become familiar with the roads, at least the roads between Winfrith and Corfe Castle. “There’s nothing random about what happened to Archie Weatherton. Forensics show no sign of a struggle, no blood spatter outside that tent. Whoever killed him, they knew he’d be in there. We just have to work out why he was in there, and not in London or Bristol.”

  She pulled to a halt outside the front doors. “Send Johnny Chiles out, will you? His turn to get out from behind a desk.”

  Dennis unfastened his seatbelt. “You’re finding excuses to work with each of us, one by one. You’re sizing us up.”

  “Well done, Poirot. I’ll find a space as close as possible.”

  He grunted and got out. There had been no talk of the swear jar on the way home, no arguments about Laila’s loose morals. But Lesley knew it was all still there, under the surface.