Cavendish & Walker Box Set

by Sally Rigby

  This story is a work of fiction. All names, characters, organisations or places, events and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any persons, alive or dead, events or locals is almost entirely coincidental.

  Edited by Emma Mitchell of @ Creating Perfection.

  Cover Design by Stuart Bache of Books Covered

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  Chapter One

  Detective Chief Inspector Whitney Walker parked outside her mum’s house. It was a typical 1930s terrace, with a big bay window and a stone step. She’d been born there. So had her mum, her younger brother, and her daughter, Tiffany. Three generations. And now she was heading into a meeting which could put an end to all that history.

  As she stepped out of the car, a few spots of rain bounced off her jacket. It had been raining on and off since the early hours of the morning. She hurried down the path, took out her key, and opened the door. A musty smell hit her as she walked in. The house was in dire need of renovation. Since her dad died ten years ago, money had been tight. Her mum stayed at home to care for Whitney’s younger brother, Rob, who’d been brain damaged following a violent attack when he was in his early teens. He was now thirty-four, but unable to live on his own. Even though Whitney helped her mum out financially, there was nothing left over for general maintenance. The paint was peeling from the windows, and the cream wallpaper had turned yellow. She’d offered to do some painting on her days off, but her mum had refused, saying she didn’t want to change anything because it reminded her of Whitney’s dad.

  ‘It’s only me,’ she called.

  There were sounds coming from the lounge, and inside she found her mum sitting on the sofa next to Rob.

  ‘Hi, Mum.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Her mum frowned.

  ‘I said I’d be here for when the social worker arrived.’ The forgetfulness was getting much worse. If she spoke to her mum about things from the past, there was no problem, but anything recent and it was hit and miss whether she remembered. Whitney looked at her watch. Hopefully the meeting wouldn’t take too long. Even though it was quiet at work, and she’d been able to get away, she didn’t want to be gone for too long. ‘Shall I put the kettle on? I could do with a coffee.’

  She’d been running late that morning and had only managed to finish half a mug. Caffeine was her addiction, and if she didn’t get a hit every couple of hours, she became grumpy.

  ‘If you like, love,’ her mum said. ‘Do you know where everything is?’

  ‘Of course I do. What are you up to, Rob?’ she said to her brother, who was running his favourite toy car up and down the arm of the sofa.

  ‘I want a biscuit, but Mum said no.’

  He was still wearing his pyjamas, which looked like they hadn’t been washed for ages. She should’ve noticed sooner.

  ‘You can have one when the social worker arrives.’

  ‘Okay, Whitney.’ He didn’t look at her, just continued playing.

  ‘Why don’t you go upstairs and get dressed?’ she suggested.

  ‘Mum said I didn’t have to.’ He stuck out his bottom lip.

  ‘Are you sure? We’re having a visitor; don’t you want to look nice for her?’ she cajoled.

  ‘No,’ he said in the voice which meant it was pointless her trying to persuade him.

  ‘It was just a suggestion,’ she said, giving a shrug.

  She glanced around the room. It obviously hadn’t been cleaned for a long time, and when she walked over to the fireplace and ran her finger along the top, she could’ve written her name in the dust. It wrenched at her gut when she thought back to how house-proud her mum used to be. There was never anything out of place. And the house sparkled.

  Whitney should have done something about it, but she’d been so busy recently. She would have to make more of an effort.

  She was about to go into the kitchen when the doorbell rang.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ she said, heading out of the room.

  She closed the lounge door behind her, as she wanted to speak to the social worker without her mum or Rob hearing.

  The social worker stood on the path holding a big green-and-white spotted umbrella over her head, as it had started raining properly. She looked to be around fifty, older than many Whitney had met in Lenchester. That pleased her. She’d be more understanding with her mum than some of the younger ones.

  ‘Come in. You can leave your umbrella in the porch. It was only spitting a while ago, and now look at it.’ She held open the door.

  ‘Yes. Luckily, I had my brolly in the car. I take it you’re Whitney? I’m Jean Hedges.’ She held out her hand and Whitney shook it.

  ‘Good to finally meet you. I’d like a word in private before we go in to see Mum.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m worried she isn’t coping. When I ask her, she says everything’s fine, but when I look around the place, I can see it isn’t. I don’t know what the options are.’

  She did know. She just didn’t want to have to face them.

  ‘I’ll be honest. It’s not looking good. It would be hard enough for her to be here on her own, but with Rob to look after, I suspect it’s soon going to become impossible.’

  ‘Could you arrange for some help? A cleaner and someone to take care of Rob. Perhaps they could help with the cooking, too.’

  ‘Funding aside, I’m not sure it’s an option,’ Jean said. ‘When I popped in last week during the afternoon, your mum was still in her nightwear watching the TV, and Rob was in the kitchen unattended, making himself some beans on toast. There was a tea-towel draped over the hob. If I hadn’t arrived, there could have been a fire.’

  ‘Why didn’t anyone tell me? You have my contact details.’ She didn’t even attempt to hide the annoyance in her voice.

  ‘Because nothing actually happened. But you can see the problem. It’s getting to the stage when there needs to be someone here full-time overseeing them both.’

  But who? They couldn’t afford a live-in carer. And with a mortgage to pay and a daughter at university, it was impossible for Whitney to give up her job and care for them. Not only that, she couldn’t throw away her career. It was her life.

  ‘She’s only sixty-five. Too young to be like this. It’s got worse so quickly. Six weeks ago, the house was fairly clean, and she seemed less confused. But now…’ Tears welled in her eyes and she blinked them away. ‘And there’s Rob to consider.’

  ‘There are some lovely homes for your mum to move into, and some excellent live-in facilities for people with Rob’s difficulties,’ Jean said.

  ‘Lock him up, you mean? I couldn’t do that. He’s used to his own bedroom, and having the freedom to go into the garden and play. Or hang out watching the TV. He doesn’t go out on his own, but he goes to a special group at a local day centre twice a week where he’s got several friends.’

  ‘He hasn’t been for four weeks.’

  ‘Why not? It’s not like he can’t get there. He gets picked up and dropped back off. Did they stop coming for him?’

  ‘From what I understand, your mum told the driver not to come any more.’

  This was crazy. How come she didn’t know?

  ‘I don’t want him going into a secure home which restricts what he does and takes away his freedom.’

  ‘There are some great places around. It’s called assisted living. Residents look after themselves, but there’s a carer on call twenty-four hours a day. I can look into it for Rob and see what’s available. He’d be with people like himself and will make friends. It’s not something you have to decide now; we can talk it through with them both and arrange a visit.’

  Would he make friends? Could he cope without their mum being there? What if he moved in and
hated it? There would be nothing she could do. He’d be left all alone. So many thoughts were swirling around her head.

  ‘I don’t know. I need to think about it.’

  ‘I’ll call you next week and we can talk some more. Let’s go and have a chat with your mum and see how things are going.’

  They went into the lounge. Her mum and brother hadn’t moved.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Walker,’ Jean said.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ her mum asked.

  ‘I’ve come to see you, as I do every Thursday.’

  ‘Okay. Whitney, why are you here?’ A confused expression crossed her face.

  ‘I’ve been here a while, Mum. I went to let Jean in.’

  ‘Are you staying for dinner?’ her mum asked.

  ‘I’ve only just had breakfast, and it’s too early for dinner. I’m here to meet with Jean.’

  Whitney tensed. She couldn’t bear to see her mum like this; it was soul destroying. She used to be so active, so much fun. But now. Even when she could remember things, she’d sit there looking a bit vague. Jean was right. Something had to be done. ‘Who wants a cup of tea or coffee?’ she asked, remembering she hadn’t yet put the kettle on.

  ‘Tea, please,’ the social worker replied. ‘Milk, no sugar.’

  ‘I’d rather have sherry,’ her mum said.

  ‘It’s only ten in the morning. Don’t you think it’s a bit early to start drinking?’ Whitney gave a little laugh. She didn’t even know her mum liked sherry, or whether there was any in the house.

  ‘But I want some now.’

  Jean sat down on the sofa next to her. ‘Mrs Walker, I’ve been talking to Whitney about the possibility of you moving into somewhere more comfortable where you can be looked after, and you won’t have to worry about being on your own.’

  Whitney glared at Jean. They hadn’t decided to mention it now, so why was she? It was Whitney’s decision when to say something, not hers. Only a few minutes ago, the woman had said there was no rush.

  She didn’t like being put on the spot.

  ‘I’m not on my own, I’m with Rob. I don’t want to go anywhere.’ Her mum’s fists clenched by her side, and she appeared agitated. ‘You can’t make me go if I don’t want to.’

  ‘No one’s going to make you do anything, Mum. It’s just something we’ve been considering. It’s hard for you having to look after Rob.’

  ‘I can look after myself,’ Rob said. ‘I can cook now, can’t I, Mum?’

  Whitney looked helplessly at Jean. It was going from bad to worse.

  ‘Yes, Rob. You’re a very good boy, and we can manage together,’ her mother said.

  It was like her mum had suddenly gone back to normal. The confused look had gone, and she seemed to understand the situation.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mum. It’ll be fine. Like I said, it’s something we’re considering at the moment. We won’t do anything without your consent. We want to make sure you and Rob are okay, because I can’t always be here. My job can be chaotic, and I don’t want to be worrying that you two are struggling.’

  ‘There’s no need for you to worry,’ her mum said.

  ‘Why don’t w—’ She was interrupted by her phone ringing. It was work. ‘I have to get this.’ She left the room and pulled the door shut behind her. ‘Walker.’

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, guv,’ Matt Price, her detective sergeant, said.

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘A mutilated body has been found on some waste ground beside the old racecourse. It’s a nasty one.’

  What the fuck? Lenchester was turning into murder central. It was only a few months since they’d solved the Campus Murders case, and here was another one.

  ‘Okay, meet me there in twenty minutes.’

  Chapter Two

  Whitney pulled on her blue wellington boots and headed down the overgrown path towards the location of the body. In the distance, beside the cordon, Matt was talking to one of the uniformed officers. She wrapped her coat tightly around her to stop the wind from whistling through. Thankfully, the rain had stopped, but it was still cold and exceptionally muddy.

  ‘Hey, Matt,’ she said when she got within speaking distance. ‘Have you seen the body?’

  He walked over to her. ‘Not yet. I was waiting for you. I’ve been talking to PC Reeves, the first officer attending. He’s secured the scene and is waiting for the crime scenes team to arrive. Dr Dexter’s already here.’

  ‘Okay, let’s go.’

  They walked past a line of wild brambles towards the tent which had been erected around the body to stop it being seen by the public. Not that there was anyone around at the moment, the weather was so bad. Stepping plates were in place to ensure they didn’t trample on the vast amount of litter and broken bottles, all of which were potential evidence. On reaching the tent, she put her head around the opening where Claire Dexter, the pathologist, was taking photographs.

  ‘Morning, Claire. What have we got?’

  Whitney walked in and tensed at the sight of the naked body in front of her. The victim was missing his penis and testicles.

  ‘Holy crap,’ she said. ‘What the fuck happened to him?’

  Matt, who’d been standing behind her, darted out of the tent, and she could hear him throwing up on the grass.

  ‘Sounds like his breakfast,’ Claire said, chuckling.

  However gruesome the situation, Claire could always be relied on to see the funny side. She had to be like that, or how else could she do her job and remain sane?

  ‘What can you tell me about cause of death?’ she asked.

  ‘Wait until I’ve got him on the table and done the cutting. Then you can have my report. I will say, it’s interesting the way his clothes have been folded so neatly and left beside him.’

  Whitney glanced to the side of the body. Claire was right. She looked back at the victim and noticed he was still wearing socks.

  ‘Why were they left on?’

  ‘I have no idea until I remove them back at the lab and see if there’s anything underneath.’

  ‘Do you think he was mutilated here or moved?’

  ‘Whitney. For God’s sake, you know how I work. I’m not prepared to make any assumptions. You’ll have to wait.’

  Whitney shut her mouth. Claire was their best pathologist, but also the most uncompromising, and often on a short fuse. Should she call Cavendish? The forensic psychologist had worked with her on the last murder case, and she was sure George would want a look at this crime scene. It wasn’t every day a mutilated corpse came along. Especially one like this.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘All I can tell you is I can’t see any obvious cause of death, not counting the mutilation which, in itself, wouldn’t have killed him.’

  ‘Where are the missing body parts?’ she asked, risking another question.

  ‘I haven’t found them yet,’ Claire said.

  ‘Could they be in his socks?’

  ‘It’s a possibility, though looking at them from the outside, not likely. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got a lot to do before we can move the body, so please leave me alone.’

  Claire turned and began taking more photos. Whitney didn’t take offence at her manner; the pathologist was the same with everyone.

  Before leaving, she decided to take another look at the victim’s face. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn’t quite place it. Having lived in Lenchester her entire life, she often came in contact with people she knew or had known when she was younger.

  ‘Do we have any identification?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, not on his person, obviously,’ Claire said, giving a wry grin. ‘Let me photograph the clothes, and you can move them to see if there’s anything there.’

  After Claire had taken several photos, Whitney pulled on her disposable gloves, took out an evidence bag, and picked up each item of clothing to examine before dropping it in. But there was nothing. All the pockets were empty. There was no phone an
d no wallet. Nothing to identify him.

  ‘Of course not. That would’ve been too easy,’ Whitney muttered to herself, letting out a sigh. ‘But he’s definitely familiar.’ She stared at him a while longer, noticing a faint jagged silver line running along his forehead. Then it hit her. ‘It’s Russell Atkins. I recognise the scar. It came from a brutal tackle in a football match. I was there when it happened. The whole school turned out because winning meant we’d be top of the league table and win the championship. He went to North Lenchester Academy, my school. He was a few years ahead of me, but I remember him because he was Head Boy. And very popular. Half the girls in my class had a crush on him. What the hell happened?’

  ‘That’s what I’m here to find out,’ Claire said, arching an eyebrow.

  ‘I definitely need to speak to George. We’re going to need her help with this one.’ She pulled her phone out of her pocket.

  ‘If she’s got time,’ Claire said.

  ‘Why wouldn’t she?’

  ‘The last time I spoke to her, she was preparing her application for the associate professor role in her department. Said she had a lot of work to do for the interview and presentation. You know George. She’s preparation personified and certainly won’t be leaving it to the last minute.’

  Whitney frowned. George hadn’t mentioned the interview when they’d spoken a week or so ago. Actually, it was more like a month. Then again, it wasn’t like they were best friends, so why would she? Especially if she thought Whitney wouldn’t understand because she wasn’t academic. Claire, on the other hand, was both clever and academic, so she’d know all about it.

  ‘I didn’t know you kept in touch.’

  ‘I did a lecture for her last week, and she told me after.’

  ‘Well, I’m still going to call her. If she’s too busy, I’m sure she’ll tell me.’

  She pulled out her phone from her pocket.