Sophie had been right in the prediction she’d made on Friday afternoon. As the morning wore on useful evidence and information started to trickle into the incident room from the various individuals and organisations contacted the previous week.
The first item to appear was an emailed list from Bristol Police. It summarised the items that had been retained after the unexplained hit and run death of Doctor Li Hua Camberwell, and included a hair brush. Barry replied immediately asking for the brush to be sent to him by emergency courier, for DNA analysis.
The next documentation was closely linked to this: the DNA profiles of the children’s bodies, taken from residual bone marrow. The profiles reinforced several of the assumptions the team had already made. The children had been siblings and were part Chinese and part European. The results ruled out any Philippino background, which probably meant that a connection to Wethergill’s partner was unlikely. If forensic experts could extract some DNA from hair follicles on Li Hua’s hairbrush, they would be able to confirm or refute a possible family connection to the Camberwells.
The final item was a phone call that Sophie received from Southampton University late in the morning. Professor Wendy Millward had examined the rug fragments that had been sent to her laboratories. She reported that initial tests had failed to find any traces of iron cyanide complex. Further, more sensitive analytical work would be needed to confirm the result, but her most reliable technician was fairly sure that nothing would be found. Sophie was disappointed.
‘But something else did turn up, so it’s not all gloom. I don’t know what to make if it, though.’ Sophie waited.
‘It follows on from the tests we did last week, on the soil from the cellar. You remember we had a chat about it?’
Sophie frowned, trying to remember what they’d decided. ‘Yes. You wanted to do some more checks, if I remember right?’
‘Exactly. We think there are traces of hydrocarbons in the cellar soil, but at a very low level.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Well, the tests suggest paraffin residues. Obviously it was a long time ago, and all the volatile components have long since evaporated into the air. But there are traces of the heavier ones, probably adsorbed onto the soil particle surfaces. Maybe due to a spillage of some kind?’
‘Thanks, Wendy. I don’t know how relevant it will turn out to be, but it all helps us to build up a picture. I don’t suppose you can work out how long it’s been there? From the residues left, I mean. If it was paraffin then wouldn’t it lose components at a steady rate? Given that it was cool in the cellar and at a fairly constant temperature?’
‘There’s an interesting thought. Personally I don’t know, but I’ll get in touch with one of my colleagues in environmental science. I think someone has done some work on evaporation rates from sand, but that was probably with crude oil rather than refined paraffin. I’ll get back to you on it.’
Sophie walked over to Rae’s desk.
‘Have you got that list from the house clearance people, Rae? You know, the stuff they removed from Finch Cottage when it was sold?’
Rae scrabbled around on her desk and found it. Sophie moved a finger down the list and then stopped.
‘There. Look. An old paraffin heater removed from the cellar. Rae, can you phone them and see if it’s been sold yet?’
In the early afternoon Sophie received a text from Harry Turner, saying how much he’d enjoyed the weekend, and wondering how things had gone. Sophie told him of the sudden change in the command structure. She walked to the hospital to hear the results of Benny Goodall’s post-mortem examination of Wethergill’s corpse.
As she crossed the street Sophie caught sight of a familiar and very feminine figure turning a corner ahead of her into a side street. She filed the information away in her brain, already seemingly chock full of disparate observations and thoughts.
* * *
‘My problem is this, Benny. If I stick only to the Dorset connection, I come to an obvious conclusion. There have been three deaths, the two children some twenty years ago and John Wethergill on Thursday. There is clearly some kind of link, and it leads us to suspect that Wethergill probably caused the children’s deaths, and that he committed suicide as our net closed in on him. Two suspicious deaths and a suicide.
‘However, looking beyond Dorset there have been five deaths, so the situation changes dramatically. We now include the rather unusual deaths of the children’s probable parents in Bristol. This gives us either four suspicious deaths and a suicide, or five suspicious deaths. If the latter, then we have good reason to think that the perpetrator might still be out there somewhere. Wethergill’s death is key, you can see that. So, is there any sign that his death was anything other than suicide?’
‘No. None whatsoever. Of course, that doesn’t prove anything. There were no signs of a struggle and there were no other drugs in his bloodstream, other than alcohol. The amount of alcohol was moderate, so he wouldn’t have been drunk.’
‘So you can’t tell me either way?’
‘That’s right. He was a fit man who looked after himself physically. All of his organs were fully functioning, and he probably would have had a long and healthy life ahead of him.’
‘What type of alcohol had he been drinking?’
‘I’d make a guess at something like Amaretto. Not the whisky on the bedside table, which is a surprise.’
‘That’s a bit of a giveaway, isn’t it?’
Benny shrugged his shoulders. ‘From your point of view, yes. Medically irrelevant though.’
Sophie’s brain was whirring. ‘I wonder if there were traces left in the glass on his bedside table. I’ll ask Dave Nash.’
He nodded. ‘I could arrange for some analytical tests just to confirm it, if you think it’s worthwhile.’
‘Yes. It’s important. Amaretto in the stomach but an open bottle of whisky by the bed.’
He nodded. ‘Almonds. Amaretto would disguise the smell and taste of the cyanide.’
‘Exactly.’
She took her mobile phone from her bag and called her sergeant. ‘Barry? Could you and Rae pay another visit to Wethergill’s flat? Yes, right now. Can you see if there’s a bottle of Amaretto or a similar liqueur anywhere? Even if it’s empty? Look in the bins. If you find one, bring it in. Then see if there’s any evidence that he was either interested in or wrote poetry. Collect any books on poetry that you find. Have a really good search for notebooks, scraps of paper or anything that has a verse of any type on it. Those strange verses that the vicar gave us weren’t the work of an absolute beginner or someone with no knowledge of literature. I want to find out if we’re being led a merry dance by someone.’
* * *
‘So, nothing?’
Marsh shook his head. ‘I looked for bottles of booze, notebooks or bits of paper, but I didn’t find anything relevant. And I went through the place very thoroughly. Rae searched his books. Again, nothing.’
‘The only ones he had were on gardening or cooking, ma’am. There were a few travel books and local maps, plus some Dorset guide-books. He had some general interest magazines but nothing literary at all.’
‘Have forensics finished with his laptop?’
‘Yes, I checked with them,’ Barry replied. ‘Stuff related to his business, general odds and ends, some files with dating sites, but otherwise the same kind of material as his books. Recipes and travel. There was nothing anywhere that was remotely connected to poetry.’
Sophie took the poems from the case folder and read them again. ‘So it’s looking as though he didn’t write these. Maybe I should get them analysed by an expert. I’ve already said that I think they’re the work of an amateur who knows how to use words and has some familiarity with literature. Am I wrong?’
Marsh shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m not into literature, and I don’t think I could have written them.’
Rae disagreed. ‘My degree was in engineering, but I can relate to them. I can see what a good therap
eutic release writing something like that would be. I also think people are capable of much more than they think. They don’t realise what they can do until they actually try their hand at something when they’re feeling under pressure. I’m not saying that he did write them, and I know we’ve found no evidence for it, but I wouldn’t discount the possibility. He might have got books from the library. Maybe he went to a couple of evening classes.’
Sophie thought for a while. ‘We need to speak to the people who knew him. They might be able to say whether he had any literary abilities. I know we contacted his friends and family over the weekend, but maybe we need to talk to them again. Rae, can you do that now? Any headway with the paraffin heater, by the way?’
Rae shook her head. ‘No luck, ma’am. It was in such a poor condition that they binned it. They said it was badly corroded and would probably have been lethal to use. Sorry.’
Sophie frowned. ‘But that cellar was bone dry. Any corrosion would have happened before it was put down there, surely? Did they say where it was when they found it?’
‘Just in the far corner. That’s all he remembered.’
‘Okay, but we need to think about this. Meanwhile, Barry and I need to spend a bit more time crosschecking the information we have on the Camberwell parents. We’ll have a meeting first thing in the morning. We need to think through this Amaretto problem.’
Marsh shook his head. ‘Why that in particular, ma’am?’
‘Because Benny was sure it was Amaretto in his stomach. So if there was none in his flat, where did it go? Who took the bottle away?’ She paused. ‘Could you check with the cleaner that she didn’t remove a bottle from anywhere?’
Chapter 27: Sisters
Monday afternoon, week 3
Dorothy Kitson’s week had been so stressful that she’d made an appointment to see her GP. On Monday afternoon, having cancelled her usual cleaning job, she sat waiting for her allotted slot, still feeling as if her whole world might implode at any moment. Her sleep had been fitful at best and her appetite had all but disappeared. And that had been before the news about John Wethergill’s death had reached the press, causing a tidal wave of gossip to engulf the town. The weekend had been like living through a nightmare.
She realised that she needed something to calm her down and help her to sleep. Her thoughts kept returning to the story in the local newspaper about the death of John Wethergill. In the seventeen years since the end of their on-off affair in the nineties, she’d hardly thought about him. And now he was all over the news. She’d heard the rumour that he’d probably committed suicide. People were asking why he would have done such a thing, less than two weeks after the children’s bodies were found. Many of the locals knew he’d been the gardener at Finch Cottage for several years in the early nineties. But no one could remember whether his time there had overlapped with any children living at the house. He’d been cruel to Dorothy, ending their romance with no explanation and taking up with that Asian-looking woman. Dorothy’d seen them walking through the park, arm in arm. That had really hurt. To think that he’d chosen someone from abroad rather than her. The problem had been sex, of course. With men it was nearly always down to sex, wasn’t it? He’d wanted more from her than she was willing to give. When he whispered the things he wanted her to do, she’d felt sick with nerves. Why was that? Other women seemed to like sex, even her sister. Not that they talked about it much, but she knew what Pauline was like. When they were teenagers she’d hear Pauline creep in late at night. Dorothy would catch a glimpse of her as she passed her bedroom door, with that smug, satisfied smile on her face. Years later, she still radiated that sleek, self-satisfied look after a night out with some man. Not that she’d ever bothered to keep a man for very long, not Pauline. She just seemed to attract them, and she took her pick. Were all actresses like that? Putting on a show all the time?
All their lives people had been commenting on how different she and Pauline were. So marked was the difference that people were surprised they were even sisters. One glamorous, the other plain. One obviously clever, the other apparently stupid. One vibrant, the other dull. One brimming with confidence and the other timid. Yet sisters they were. And there was another, secret difference: one was full of empathy and the other was cruel. Dorothy was always taken as the elder of the two, when she was really two years younger. No matter what she did, she could never look as good as her beautiful and talented older sister. After her fling with John came to its abrupt end she’d given up trying. Of course, the smoking and drinking hadn’t helped.
The doctor appeared at the door and called her name. She rose, slightly unsteadily, and went into the consulting room. Ten minutes later she came out, clutching a prescription for some tablets. Maybe this would sort out her problems. Perhaps she should go away for a few days. A short break would do her good, and it was only a quick bus or train ride down to Weymouth. She’d check her money when she got home and see how long she could afford. With the help of the tablets she’d get a decent night’s sleep and then she’d feel much better. Maybe she’d even meet someone nice. Lots of people around her age visited Weymouth out of season. It might even be worth getting her hair done and looking for a new dress. Dorothy began to feel better.
* * *
On the other side of town, Pauline Stopley was meeting a client for lunch. He represented a large commercial manufacturing company in the area, and was planning to invest some money in local arts projects. Her regional boss had chosen Pauline specially for this task. Somehow she managed to get more grant money, and more frequently, out of potential sponsorship clients than almost anyone else in the organisation. He assumed that her acting skills were what suited her to the task, and he was right. Pauline saw it as a role. An impartial observer would note the seductive techniques she used on her clients and that it didn’t matter whether they were male or female. They fell into the trap just the same.
Pauline left the meeting having secured a donation for a Dorset theatre group. She didn’t feel like returning directly to her office. If John had still been alive, she would have popped into his shop for a chat and, if he’d been able to leave the place with his assistant, she might have lured him away to his flat for an hour or two. His death had put paid to all that. She sat on the low wall outside St Peter’s Church on the High Street, took out her mobile phone and sent a short text message. She waited, watching people hurrying by in the rare April sunshine. She glanced at the screen, and pursed her lips in disappointment. One lover dead, and the other too busy to get away from work. There was no option but to return to work herself. Unless she could find someone else in the next few minutes. She’d wondered about her lunch client, but he’d been much too patronising. There was no need to hurry back to her office, so perhaps she ought to pop into the nearby Corn Exchange building to see her sister. Dorothy had a cleaning job there on Mondays. Pauline turned back down the High Street and saw that the main doors to the building were open. Workmen were moving barrels out of the entrance and into waiting vans and she quietly slipped past them into the spacious ground-floor room. Trestle tables and racks were being dismantled, and a smell of beer lingered in the air. There was no sign of Dorothy.
‘Hello! Isn’t it Pauline Stopley?’
She turned to face the tall, good-looking man who’d spoken to her. Well, things were beginning to look up. She gave him the benefit of her most brilliant smile. ‘Hi. I hope I’m not intruding. I was passing by and was intrigued by what was going on, so I decided to take a look inside. It’s decades since I was last in here. I hope I’m not causing any bother. Have we met recently? You seem familiar. Are you from round here?’
‘No, I live in Wareham. We’re clearing up after the weekend beer exhibition.’
‘It’s a beautiful building, isn’t it? The restoration work has been done so well. So do you work here, or for the beer trade?’
He laughed. ‘Hardly. I’m a teacher. Martin Allen.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m on Dorset’s real ale comm
ittee and the local group have just had their spring exhibition. They needed someone to oversee the clearing up today after the local person suddenly fell ill, so I foolishly volunteered. It’s the school Easter holidays.’ He paused. ‘And we met last weekend, at the Arts Centre. My daughter Hannah gave the FGM talk.’
Pauline nodded. ‘Now I remember . . . So that means that your wife is . . ?’
‘Is what?’
‘A senior police officer?’
‘Yes, she is. Why do you ask?’
‘No reason really. Well, there is. She interviewed me on Friday. So she hasn’t mentioned me?’
Martin looked puzzled. ‘No. She’s not allowed to talk about ongoing cases. You seem worried about it.’
‘No, no. Not at all.’ The smile was back. ‘It’s just that I was shocked by the sudden death of someone close to me.’ She paused. ‘Well, to be honest he was my lover. It shook me up and I haven’t got back to normal yet.’
‘That’s entirely understandable. It takes time to come to terms with sudden death. By the way, I should thank you for taking the time to meet up with Hannah last week and give her the benefit of your experience. I’m sure she appreciated it.’
Pauline looked disoriented again for a moment. ‘It was a pleasure. I’m always glad to help aspiring actresses.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Well, I’d better be getting back to the office. Work will be piling up. Goodbye.’
She turned and walked out. Martin watched her leave.
On her way back to her workplace, Pauline tried to phone her sister, but there was no reply. Not for the first time, Pauline wished her sister would keep her mobile phone switched on. Dorothy claimed the calls and messages made her feel nervous.
* * *
Martin mentioned his meeting with Pauline Stopley to Sophie and Jade at their evening meal. ‘It was a bit peculiar,’ he said. ‘One moment she was all smiles and fluttering eyelashes, and the next she was giving guarded looks. It happened when I mentioned Hannah, too.’
Detective Sophie Allen Box Set 2 Page 18