The Corfe Castle Murders (Dorset Crime Book 1)

by Rachel McLean

  “I mean, look at her.” She looked her husband up and down. “Look at you. What did you do, tell her you were a millionaire?”

  “Don’t.”

  “I think I can do what I fucking like, seeing that I’ve just caught you shagging a hot Spanish woman in the marital bed.” She glanced back at the woman. “You’re welcome to him.”

  She shoved her way past Terry, grabbed her shoes, and slammed the door on her way out.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Another meal, another argument. This time it had been between Crystal and Patrick. Crystal was tense about damage she claimed the CSIs had done inside the tent. Patrick just wanted things to get back to normal. He’d made a mess cooking dinner, and Crystal’s griping at him had escalated into a full-scale row.

  Laila dried the dishes while Crystal washed. Crystal kept asking questions, but Laila shut them all down. Crystal knew the police had been back. She knew they’d searched Crystal and Archie’s room. She didn’t know why.

  When everything had been put away, Laila left the kitchen. Patrick was in the cramped living room, cricket blaring from a tinny radio he kept for the purpose. Laila grimaced and went upstairs.

  She paused at the top, hand on her door handle. Coming in here was getting harder each time. The room still smelt of him, every time she opened a drawer she was faced with his belongings, and she’d taken to sleeping as far over on her own side of the small double bed as she could. They’d laughed about the lack of space, the fact they had no choice but to be intimate. For her first three weeks in the house she’d shared with Crystal, who had two single beds in her downstairs bedroom. Moving up here had been a relief, even if she had been forced to endure some disapproving looks from Crystal. It had got Patrick off her case, at least.

  She pulled her duffel bag out from under the bed. She couldn’t stand it here anymore. She’d sent a text to her sister, Jade. I sent you a parcel. Keep it safe.

  But Jade hated her.

  She’d open it, and then what? What if the police decided to go to the house, interview her family?

  She heard movement outside, followed by a knock on her door. She opened it, her foot behind it for security.

  “We need to talk.” It was Patrick.

  “I don’t have anything to talk to you about.”

  “Ah, don’t be daft, girl.”

  He pushed at the door. She held it firm.

  “Please. Leave me alone.”

  “They searched your room.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Don’t be daft, Laila. Let me in.” He gave the door a shove and was inside.

  “I’ll call Crystal,” she said.

  He leaned against the door. She backed away from him.

  “And what’ll she think, knowing what a little slag you are? Archie’s dead, move onto the next fella.”

  A shiver ran across her skin. Patrick was old enough to be her dad. And he was gross.

  “Go away.”

  “Tell me why they searched your room.”

  “I don’t know, do I? They wanted to go through Archie’s things, I suppose. Look for clues.”

  “Look for clues. Don’t be so naive. They were looking for something specific.”

  She met his gaze. Don’t blink. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He shoved his forefinger into his mouth and poked between his teeth, then withdrew his finger and surveyed it. She watched, disgusted.

  “Well, they’ll have it now, I suppose.” He took a step towards her. “Unless you found it?”

  She shrank back, her legs hitting the bed. “Like I say, I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about.”

  He nodded, twisting his lips. Another step forward. She leaned back.

  “Did you tell them about us?” he murmured.

  “Us?” She put a hand out behind her but it fell through space, nearly taking her with it.

  “You and me, stupid.”

  “There never was a you and me.”

  He smiled and raised his hand. He left it hovering, centimetres from her face.

  Don’t fall. Don’t close your eyes. Don’t let him win.

  He stroked her cheek. She screwed up her eyes.

  “You’re a cute little thing, for a trollop.” He blew into her face, very gently. She wanted to scream.

  After a long moment, he pulled back. “You’ll be out of here soon.”

  “What?” She opened her eyes and regained her balance. Did he know she’d been about to pack her bags?

  “Crystal only kept yer on cos Archie insisted. He had power over her. Now he’s gone…”

  There was no answer to that. She was the most junior member of the team, and she didn’t have the qualifications she pretended to. Only Crystal knew about that.

  But they were too far into the project for Crystal to start recruiting. And Laila was cheap.

  “Leave my room, now.”

  “Only too happy to.” He pulled the door open and clattered down the stairs.

  Laila sank back onto the bed, her body quivering. Archie had been her protection. From Crystal and her mistrust. From Patrick and his wandering hands. Without him, she had nothing left. She didn’t want to be an archaeologist. The six months she’d spent at university before dropping out, and the five weeks on this dig, had taught her that. She’d only got up in the mornings because she loved Archie. And he’d loved her, too.

  Hadn’t he?

  She pulled out the duffel bag. She didn’t have many belongings. What little cash she had saved would buy her a train ticket home.

  She stopped.

  Home. She hadn’t even told her dad she’d dropped out of uni. Jade knew, and she held the knowledge over Laila like a weapon. Dad had been an empty shell for the last two and a half years, since Mum had died. He barely knew what his daughters’ names were, let alone what they were studying. But her getting a place at Durham University had made him smile for the first time in months.

  She dropped the bag. She couldn’t go home.

  Where, then?

  She heard footsteps in the room next door. Patrick. She wished her room had a lock. Could she ask Crystal if the older woman would share again, now Archie was gone?

  Crystal would ask questions. It would be an excuse to throw Laila off the team.

  Laila yanked her door open and hurried down the stairs. It was dark out. She didn’t want to go to the pub: they’d all be talking about her.

  But she had to get out of the house. “I’m going for a walk,” she told Crystal. There was a route up to the hills above the village, she often went up there for some time to herself.

  Crystal glanced up from her book. “Put a coat on.”

  Who are you, my mum? Laila felt tears prickle. She flung open the front door and half-fell into the street, ignoring the chill.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Lesley stood outside her house, her heart racing. It had started to rain. Bloody typical.

  She turned back to the house. The curtains had been drawn in the bedroom. Her bedroom. Where her toad of a husband was shagging a woman who was way out of his league.

  She shouldn’t have stormed out like that. It was her house. She should have kicked the Spanish woman out. Julieta. Terry, too.

  She sighed, imagining the legal wranglings over the house. Then there was Sharon to think of. With Lesley stuck in Dorset for the next six months, Terry would want custody.

  She shook her head. The rain was making her face wet. Not tears. She was too angry for tears.

  She’d been too busy with her career over the years to cultivate the kind of friends whose doorstep you could arrive at unannounced at ten o’clock on a Tuesday night, dripping wet and steaming with anger.

  It would have to be a colleague. She should phone ahead, but her new Dorset Police-issued phone didn’t have the numbers of her old colleagues.

  She flicked her phone on and brought up the Uber app.

  Twenty minutes later she was standing outside
a narrow terraced house in Selly Oak. She pushed her hair back, knowing she looked a state.

  A curtain flickered in the bay window next door: a young man looking out at her. She gave him a sarcastic wave and he pulled the curtain shut. She took a breath and rang the doorbell.

  A light came on, visible through the glass over the front door. She was home, at least. After a few moments, the door opened.

  A woman in her early forties with long red-brown hair stood in the doorway. She had a grey tabby cat in her arms. When she recognised Lesley, her jaw dropped.

  “Ma’am?”

  Lesley shook her head. “I’m not your boss any more.”

  Zoe looked past Lesley as if she was expecting to see a fleet of police cars behind her. “Everything OK?”

  “I’m getting pretty wet.”

  “Sorry. Come in.”

  Lesley shuffled past DI Finch into a narrow hall. The cat yawned at her as she passed. Zoe remembered she was holding it and let the creature drop to the floor before closing the front door.

  Lesley walked through to a chaotic living room. Empty Chinese takeaway cartons littered the coffee table and a pair of black Doc Martens had been slung on the floor next to the sofa. Zoe had never been known for her tidiness.

  Lesley turned back to the woman who’d worked for her until a few short months ago. Zoe Finch had been her best DI, the only person she could trust with all this crap.

  “Did Dorset not work out, Ma’am?”

  “Call me Lesley, please. Dorset’s fine. I had to come back for an interview with Superintendent Rogers. First thing tomorrow morning.”

  “Ah.” Zoe would know all about that. The interview was about the Jackdaw case, investigating Lesley’s corrupt former boss, Detective Superintendent David Randle. Without Zoe’s input, Rogers and his team wouldn’t have collared the man.

  “Do you need something from me, Lesley?” Zoe looked awkward saying her name.

  “This is bloody embarrassing. And it’s confidential, you understand?”

  “Of course.”

  Lesley eyed the takeaway cartons. All she’d eaten since the two Mars bars in the briefing had been a packet of custard creams on the train.

  “Don’t suppose you’ve got any leftovers, have you?”

  Zoe laughed. “Shedloads. Nicholas is out with his boyfriend. I over-ordered, and the cat was having none of it.”

  Lesley sank to the sofa. She wanted to curl into a ball and sleep for a week. Images of Julieta kept flashing through her head. Of Terry with her.

  She shuddered.

  “Here. I’ll get you a plate. We might need to stick it in the microwave.”

  “That would be fantastic. Thanks.”

  “No problem. Is that what you need from me? Food?”

  Lesley rubbed her temple. “I also need a bed for the night.”

  Zoe paused as she was picking up the takeaway cartons. Lesley could sense the questions. But Zoe would never pry.

  “Of course.” She took the cartons into the kitchen. “You can have the spare room,” she called out as she opened the microwave.

  Lesley nodded. The grey cat, not much more than a kitten, jumped onto her lap. After a moment’s hesitation, she stroked it.

  Bloody Terry. Why the hell had she decided to surprise him?

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Rollington Hill was partway along the Purbeck Way, a line of windswept hills with panoramic views across the Isle of Purbeck. To the north, Poole Harbour stretched out below. Behind, Corfe Castle rose up on its hilltop perch. On a fine day you could see as far as the Isle of Wight in the east and almost to the New Forest beyond Bournemouth to the north east.

  Today was not a fine day.

  Dennis tugged at his grey tweed jacket, wishing he’d thought to pick up his coat on the way out of the office. Pam had bought it for him. It was sensible: green, waterproof, designed for long country walks.

  He didn’t imagine the manufacturers had envisaged it being worn at a crime scene.

  Behind him, Johnny stamped his feet and blew on his hands. Mike had been the lucky one: back in the office, trying to get hold of the boss and tracking down the next of kin.

  Ahead of him, Gail Hansford and her team of two burly CSIs struggled with a forensic tent. The wind whipped at the canvas, tugging it back and forth and as often as not taking one of the techs with it.

  “Shouldn’t we give them a hand, Sarge?”

  Dennis sighed. Truth was, he’d been enjoying watching them struggle. Gail Hansford could be irritating, with her unladylike brusqueness and those dreadful heavy boots she wore. There were rumours about Gail, rumours Dennis liked to hold himself aloft from. But she’d never given anyone a satisfactory explanation as to why her husband had left her three years ago. Her ex, Bob Hansford, was a good guy, worked as a traffic warden in Poole. He lived alone up there, no girlfriend or new wife. It didn’t make sense.

  “Sarge?”

  Dennis snapped out of his thoughts. “Of course.”

  Johnny hurried towards the CSIs. Unlike Dennis, he was suitably attired, a black fleece over his creased blue suit. Dennis hated fleeces.

  Johnny grabbed the fourth corner of the tent and helped bring it under control. Dennis joined him.

  “Thanks guys,” Gail panted. “Be careful not to disturb her. This is bloody delicate work.”

  Dennis raised an eyebrow, wishing he’d managed to persuade the Crime Scene Manager to include her team in the swear box. The Church Roof Fund would be significantly the richer for it.

  “Got it.” Gail slammed a peg into the ground, narrowly missing Dennis’s foot. She scooted round to the other corners of the tent, securing pegs while the four men held the structure steady.

  She stood back, the wind whipping her hair across her face. “Let go.”

  The four men each loosened their grip on their respective corners and stepped back. Dennis held an arm in front of his face. He wouldn’t have been surprised if the whole thing came tumbling down on him. But it held.

  He heard a shout behind him and turned to see the ageing pathologist heaving his way up the hill. He stopped next to Dennis, panting.

  “Damn steep, up that hill,” he breathed.

  “Thank you for coming.”

  “Only doing my job. Good job you got me on a weekday this time, eh?”

  Dr Whittaker struggled forward and into the tent. Gail and one of her CSIs were already in there, while another one was crouched on the ground outside, examining something.

  “Watch where you step,” the CSI said as the pathologist passed him.

  The doctor waved an arm in dismissal. “I’ve been doing this since you were in nappies, young man.” He yanked the tent opening aside, making Johnny wince, and disappeared inside.

  “Stay here,” Dennis told the constable. “Call Mike, find out what’s going on.”

  “Sarge.”

  Dennis passed the CSI, mindful of where he put his feet. Forensic plates had already been placed on the ground: they didn’t want any more footprints. Dennis pulled the tent fabric aside and slid inside, glad of the relative quiet and stillness.

  Gail and Dr Whittaker were huddled together over the body. Dennis could only see the young woman’s hair and legs; the rest of her was obscured. The pathologist muttered to Gail who nodded.

  Dennis stared at the white-blonde hair, his mind numb. Less than twenty-four hours ago he’d been talking to this woman. He’d made judgements about her character. He’d believed her to be a murderer.

  And now…

  Getting herself killed didn’t mean she couldn’t have already killed too, he reminded himself. She might have been attacked by someone who wanted revenge for what she’d done. She might have been unable to live with her crime and come up here, to the roof of the county, to end her own life.

  When the pathologist and CSM drew back, he knew she hadn’t killed herself. Laila Ford’s face had been caved in by a blunt instrument. Her cheek had been smashed and her jaw broken
. It wasn’t a pretty sight.

  The pathologist stood up. He winced and wriggled his shoulders. “I’m too old for this.”

  Doctor Whittaker had been threatening retirement for six years. He never would.

  “I don’t imagine you need me to tell you the cause of death.”

  “I’d rather you confirmed it,” Dennis replied.

  “From what I can see here, her cheek and jaw bones fractured after impact from a blunt object. A piece of bone” – he bent down and pointed – “has come loose and ruptured her carotid artery.” He indicated bleeding inside her skull, behind the shattered jawbone. “It might have lodged in her trachea as well. From her skin colour, I don’t suspect asphyxiation so I imagine she died of cardiac arrest.”

  “Her heart stopped, because of a blow to her face?”

  The pathologist turned to look at him. “The head is a complicated thing, Sergeant. You’d be surprised.”

  “I am.” Dennis grimaced. Whatever this girl’s morals had been, she didn’t deserve this. She was only two years older than his niece.

  “Any sign of a weapon? Fibres? Footprints?” he asked Gail.

  “No weapon as yet. It could be the same one that was used on Archie Weatherton, but I don’t want to jump to conclusions until I’ve got more data. Footprints, we’re still checking out. There’ll be some from Uniform, and from the elderly couple who found her.”

  The couple were still nearby, huddling on a rock with foil blankets around them. A uniformed PC had found a flask of tea in their rucksack and was all but force-feeding it to them.

  “Fibres? Defensive wounds?”

  “Too early to say on fibres, Sarge, but there are defensive wounds.” Gail pointed to Laila’s right hand. “Her fingernails are broken.”

  He nodded. Hopefully her killer would still be bearing the scratches.

  He shivered. The effect of insulation inside the tent had worn off and his toes were blocks of ice.

  He could leave this to the techs.

  “We’re trying to get hold of the DCI,” he said. “She’s in a meeting, but hopefully Mike’s spoken to her by now.”

  “She’ll be SIO?”