The Corfe Castle Murders (Dorset Crime Book 1)

by Rachel McLean

Lesley took a bite and gave Gail a thumbs-up, her mouth full.

  “It was a series of head wounds,” Gail said. “One of which was fatal. If Archie had been facing away from his killer then it wouldn’t have completely covered them. But they couldn’t have avoided having at least some blood on their clothes.”

  Lesley swallowed her second bite of the Mars bar, enjoying the rush of the sugar perking her up. “Does the blood spatter show a gap where the killer was standing?”

  “Not really. There’s less of it in the entrance, but that’s largely because the wound was on the other side of the victim’s head.”

  Lesley picked up a pen from her desk and mimed hitting out with it, imagining someone doing the same to Archie Weatherton.

  Gail gave her a look. “D’you want me to demonstrate?”

  A ripple of laughter passed through the room. Lesley pushed the last of the Mars bar into her mouth and tossed the pen to Gail.

  Gail approached Lesley’s desk, dropped the pen and picked up a few sheets of paper.

  “Is this important?” she asked Lesley. Lesley hadn’t checked any of the paperwork that had landed on her desk yet. She shook her head.

  “Thanks.” Gail rolled the paper lengthways to make an imitation weapon.

  “Whatever hit him, it was hammerlike. The intensity and trajectory of the spatter and the angle of the wound indicate that it was brought round in a wide arc, hitting him on the rear of his skull, left hand side. The killer was right-handed.”

  She took a swing with her right hand. She brought the rolled up, slightly crumpled, paper down and pointed to the far end. “The head of the weapon was protruding here. We found traces of iron in his hair, it’s mentioned in the pathology report too. No modern hammer is made of iron.”

  “An ancient hammer?” Mike asked.

  Gail shrugged. “Not necessarily ancient, but pretty old. Possibly a find from the dig site.”

  Johnny whistled.

  “Under normal circumstances,” Gail continued, “I’d make contact with the dig manager and ask about missing items and about the composition of weapons from the period they’re studying.”

  “But she’s a potential suspect,” Lesley said.

  “Exactly. With your permission, Ma’am, I’d like to seek advice from an expert. Not Bournemouth University, though.”

  “For obvious reasons,” muttered Dennis.

  “Do it,” Lesley said to Gail. “And for God’s sake, please stop ma’aming me. You’re a civilian.”

  Dennis cleared his throat. Johnny’s gaze went to the filing cabinet next to the DS’s desk outside, the swear jar sitting reproachfully on top.

  “The nature of this weapon will help us determine the strength of the killer,” Lesley said. “And of course it’ll be covered in forensic evidence. Finding that is a priority.”

  “We’ve combed the field,” Gail said.

  “Maybe we should ask if anything’s gone missing,” Johnny suggested.

  Lesley didn’t like the idea of asking the archaeologists such a direct question. “We ask about inventory,” she told him. “They’ll document what they find. We need a copy of whatever records they keep.”

  “Boss.”

  Dennis was watching her, his hand raised ever so slightly.

  “This isn’t school, Dennis. Jump in whenever you have something to say.”

  He nodded. “Surely the forensics are enough for us to seize those records. We don’t have to ask.”

  “You’re right. Dennis, you work with Johnny on the Bournemouth University angle. Find whoever looks after the records. Get a copy and start working through, looking for anything that tallies with Gail’s description. Find out where things are stored and check for discrepancies.”

  “Boss.”

  “Thank you.” At last he was cooperating. “So moving on from Laila to Susan…”

  Dennis raised his hand then dropped it again when he saw his boss’s expression. “There’s still her claim that Patrick was searching through Archie’s things.”

  “So there is. She consent to a search?”

  Lesley dipped her hand into her bag, mindful of the second Mars bar. Once again, she’d failed to eat lunch.

  “She did,” Dennis replied.

  “We found three sets of prints,” Gail said.

  “Do we have fingerprint samples from the house’s inhabitants?” Lesley asked.

  “Not yet,” said Dennis. “Another job for tomorrow.”

  “Good. Mike, take a mobile sampling kit with you to the cottage, or the dig site. Get prints from all three of them.”

  “I was about to suggest that,” said Dennis.

  Lesley sighed. “Let’s move on to Susan. She knew her husband was having an affair with Laila.”

  “Yeah, it was Laila who told her,” Johnny said. Dennis tutted and shook his head.

  Lesley continued. “Laila made out that she had no idea Archie was married when we first interviewed her.”

  “And she ran off while the search of her room was taking place this afternoon,” Dennis added. He gave Gail a pointed look.

  “If she’s lied to us about this,” Lesley said, “she could be lying about other—”

  “Including Patrick searching her room,” Dennis interrupted.

  Lesley scratched her cheek. “The prints will either back up her claim, or they won’t.”

  “Most likely won’t.”

  “Let’s not assume, eh?”

  He shrugged.

  “Anything else from the search?” she asked.

  “Nothing of interest,” Gail said. “His bedside table and chest of drawers just had clothes in them.”

  “Did you check Laila’s clothes?” Dennis asked. “She might have dumped whatever she was wearing when,” – he glanced at Lesley – “if she killed him.”

  “We did,” Gail replied. “Nothing.”

  “Anything more on Susan Weatherton?” Mike asked.

  “She shut us down,” Johnny replied. “Didn’t she, boss?”

  “Her sister’s a lawyer. After she told us about her phone call from Laila, the sister kicked us out.”

  “Which is suspicious, if you ask me,” said Johnny.

  “It’s just what lawyers do,” Lesley told him. “But I do want to know more about Susan. Her… relationship with Archie, her whereabouts over the weekend.”

  “Another thing for tomorrow,” Dennis said.

  “Good thinking.” Lesley checked her watch. “I need to catch a train. I won’t be in till the afternoon tomorrow, I have a meeting I can’t get out of.” No matter how hard she tried.

  “Leave it with us,” Dennis said. Lesley looked from him to Gail, who nodded.

  “Excellent,” she said. “Good work today, everyone. Let me know if you get anything important while I’m gone.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Gail placed her empty glass on the table. “I’d better be off. Babysitter to relieve.”

  Dennis watched the CSM as she left the pub. Gail was good at her job. But he didn’t approve of her leaving her son with a babysitter so she could come out drinking after work. Even if she’d only had a shandy.

  “Go easy on her, Sarge,” Johnny said. “I know that look.”

  “What look?”

  “You think she should be at home with her kiddy.”

  “I don’t think anything.”

  Johnny laughed and necked the last of his pint. “Fair enough. I hope you’re still good for that lift.”

  “I promised you a lift, mate. I wouldn’t go back on a promise.”

  “Course not.” Johnny turned to Mike, who was nearly at the bottom of his own glass. “You getting the next one in?”

  “Uh…” Mike looked at Dennis, who held up his empty glass: Diet Pepsi. Pam’s idea, stave off the middle-aged spread.

  “Good lad,” Johnny said as Mike gathered up the glasses and left for the bar. He turned to Dennis. “I don’t like the way he’s brown-nosing her.”

  Dennis screwe
d up his face. “That’s a horrible turn of phrase.”

  “You know what I mean. He’s even started swearing around her. When he thinks you’re not listening.”

  Dennis sucked in a dry breath. Mike was at the bar, flirting with the barmaid. She leaned towards him, her low-cut top gaping.

  “Sarge?”

  Dennis turned back to Johnny. “Sorry. He’s ambitious. I’m not surprised he wants to impress her.”

  “He’s only been in MCIT for eighteen months.”

  That was the issue, Dennis knew. Johnny had been on the team for eight years, and was still a DC. He resented anyone who might leapfrog him. But Johnny was a good copper. Loyal, reliable. Dennis depended on him.

  “So what do you make of her?” Dennis asked, not wanting to talk about Mike.

  A shrug. “She’s efficient. Never worked so hard as I have the last two days. She seems thorough, though.”

  “Why a woman who demands meticulousness in the gathering of evidence can’t be more like that in her behaviour is beyond me,” Dennis replied.

  Johnny cocked his head. “You’ll have to say that in words of one syllable, Sarge.”

  Dennis patted the constable’s hand. Johnny wasn’t the brightest tool in the shed. It made him a good DC as far as Dennis was concerned. No surprises.

  He leaned in, checking the bar. Mike was still chatting to the barmaid. She kept touching her hair. A man didn’t have to be a detective to know what that meant.

  “I did some background research,” he told Johnny. “Into the new DCI.”

  Johnny rubbed his hands together. “Go on then.”

  “I did it for a good reason, you understand. After what happened with DCI Mackie I, well, I wanted to be prepared.”

  “Wanted to know the new one had control of all her marbles.”

  “I wouldn’t put it like that.” Dennis paused, staring down at the table. It had only been three months, but it felt like yesterday the old DCI had passed away.

  “So does she?”

  Dennis felt his shoulders slump. He’d found it hard to square what he’d heard about Lesley Clarke with the intelligent, forceful woman who’d become his new boss.

  “This is confidential,” he said.

  Johnny gave a mock salute. “Scout’s honour.” He hiccupped.

  Dennis rolled his eyes. “She was injured, four months ago. The bomb attack in central Birmingham.”

  “The one at the station, or the airport?”

  “Central Birmingham. The one at the station.”

  “She looks OK to me.”

  “It was a head injury. Maybe neck, I couldn’t get consistent accounts.”

  “Who d’you get this stuff from, Sarge?”

  A young woman pushed behind Dennis to get to the next table. He shuffled his stool in and lowered his voice.

  “Never you mind. But word is, it affected her mentally.”

  “She’s lost it?”

  “PTSD.”

  Johnny sat back. At the bar, Mike had given the barmaid his card and was gathering up the drinks.

  “Don’t tell anyone, Johnny,” Dennis said. “Especially not her. But our new gaffer may have a screw loose.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Tony picked up on the second ring. “Hey, gorgeous.”

  For the first time all day, Susan felt her muscles relax. “Hey.”

  She pushed the phone closer to her ear and sat down at the kitchen table. Millie was in her room, getting into her pyjamas. She wouldn’t be long. Susan was planning a quiet evening in with her, maybe watching a film. Anything to provide distraction for them both.

  The doorbell rang.

  “Shit. I’m sorry Tony, I can’t talk for long.”

  “What’s up? You’ve spoken to him?”

  She screwed her eyes shut. “He’s dead.”

  “What? Who is?”

  “Archie. He... he died on Saturday.”

  Silence. The doorbell rang again.

  “Tony?”

  “How?”

  “I can’t talk to you about it. My sister has told me not to be in contact with you for a while.”

  “Why not?”

  There was hammering on the front door. Susan heard Millie’s voice from the stairs. “Mum?”

  “You don’t think I killed him, do you Susie?”

  “Of course I don’t. But I imagine the police will want to talk to you.”

  “You told me nobody knew about us.”

  “The detective who came here was pretty sharp.”

  She suppressed a sob. She still couldn’t believe Archie was dead. She couldn’t imagine he wouldn’t be back at the weekend, breezing in as if everything was fine and their marriage wasn’t falling apart.

  “Mummy? Grandma’s at the door.”

  Susan tensed. Grandma meant Archie’s mother. “I have to go, Tony. I’m sorry. I’ll call you when… when things have settled down.”

  “You’re free. We can get married, like we said.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Archie had cheated on her God knew how many times. She loved Tony. She wanted to be with Tony.

  Didn’t she?

  “Susan!” Her mother-in-law had opened the letterbox and was calling through. She would be able to see Millie.

  “I have to go. I love you.”

  “Me too. Take care, Susie. Call me if you need me.”

  She nodded and blinked back the tears.

  Phone safely in her pocket, she stepped out of the room and took her daughter’s hand. Deep breath. She opened the door to her mother-in law, her teeth gritted.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  As the Selfridges building came into sight, Lesley felt the warm glow of home blanket her. She hadn’t wanted to come back so soon. She’d been even more reluctant about the meeting with Superintendent Rogers tomorrow. But after the stresses of the last few days, it felt bloody good to be arriving at New Street Station.

  She fought her way through the evening crowds and walked to the taxi rank. She had only a small overnight bag with her, a fresh blouse for the morning and the files she’d been sent in preparation for the meeting. She hadn’t brought anything from the Weatherton case: that was all in her head. Reluctant as she was to admit it, Dennis was probably right. It would prove to be a straightforward case, with Laila the likely killer. The girl had a motive, she would have had access to the weapon if it was an archaeological find, and she had next to no alibi. Add to that the fact that she’d found the body and was now behaving strangely. Lesley had to concede that she was looking likely.

  But they needed more evidence. Forensics. Witnesses. She’d check if someone had tracked down the man Laila claimed to have seen walking his dog, when she’d found the body.

  At last Lesley reached the front of the queue and slid into the back of a cab. She gave the driver her address and leaned back in her seat. It felt good to be driven past the familiar lights of the city. Hell, there were probably more people in her line of sight right now than she’d clapped eyes on in almost a week in Dorset.

  The taxi pulled up outside her house and she rooted around in her purse for the fare. The driver scowled at the meanness of the tip. He’d only driven her a mile and a half, what did he expect?

  Standing on the pavement, she looked up at the house. A dim light shone in the hallway and her bedroom light was on. It was quarter to nine, Terry would be doing some work or maybe enjoying a glass of wine in front of the TV. She’d spoken to Sharon on the train; her daughter was at a friend’s for a revision session and sleepover. Lesley wasn’t sure how she felt about this on a Tuesday night with GCSEs in full flow.

  Terry’s phone had gone to voicemail, and she hadn’t left a message. Her flying visit home would be a surprise.

  She unlocked the front door and removed her shoes, placing them in their usual spot under the radiator. Terry and Sharon’s shoes were lined up next to them, neater than usual.

  The kitchen light was on at the back
of the house. Lesley passed the closed doors to the living and dining rooms and stood in the kitchen doorway. She yawned.

  The fridge door was open. Terry’s hand gripped its edge but his body was hidden behind it. Lesley cleared her throat.

  The fridge door closed with a bang. The person standing in front of it wasn’t Terry.

  For an excruciating moment, Lesley thought she had the wrong house. Had the driver brought her to the wrong address? Was the brain damage after the bomb attack worse than she’d thought?

  No. Those had been her family’s shoes next to hers in the hall. This was her kitchen: grey units, scratched wooden work top, family photos on the wall over the sink.

  And that was her silk dressing gown, being worn by the dark-haired woman standing in front of the fridge.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  The woman’s gaze rested on Lesley then went past her. “Terry!”

  Lesley heard footsteps on the stairs. She turned to see Terry stumble off the bottom step, tying the cord on his own dressing gown.

  She stared at him. “What are you doing? Who is this?”

  It didn’t make sense. Her husband was an idiot. He bored her half out of her mind and he’d long since ceased being attractive.

  The woman in the kitchen had a narrow waist, and sleek, wavy black hair that tumbled down her back. Lesley had to accept that she looked bloody gorgeous in her own dressing gown.

  Terry, have an affair? With this beauty? Never.

  “Where’s Sharon?”

  Terry approached her, arms raised. “At a friend. Lesley, I can explain.”

  “I’m sure you can.” Lesley turned to the woman. “Who are you?”

  “Julieta. I’m Terry’s colleague. Who are you?” She had an accent, but her English was flawless.

  “Who am I?” Lesley didn’t know whether to laugh, or spit. “I’m only his bloody wife.”

  The woman paled. “Oh.”

  “Oh,” Lesley barked. The woman’s accent was Spanish, she realised.

  Holy fuck. Drop-dead gorgeous, ten years Terry’s junior, and Spanish?

  She turned to her husband. “How the hell did you manage that?”

  He frowned. “I’m sorry?”