Detective Sophie Allen Box Set 2

by MICHAEL HAMBLING

  ‘You’re looking great, Marilyn. I don’t know how you’re feeling, but I thought last night how well you were looking.’

  Marilyn smiled, trying to appear cheerful. ‘Shall we go through to the sitting room? I’ve got some wine chilling in the fridge if you’d like some.’

  Again the warm smile. ‘Actually, Marilyn, could I just have a cup of tea? I’m not a great one for the booze, and I suffered a bit this morning after all that bubbly last night.’

  ‘Of course. It will suit me better too.’

  Sue followed her through to the kitchen and chatted amiably while the kettle boiled. ‘I hope you don’t mind me popping round. I wanted a chat out of earshot of the men. They can be such a bloody pain at times.’ She laughed. Marilyn began to thaw.

  ‘Not at all. The two boys are in bed, so I haven’t got much to do. I must warn you that I’m not great company at the moment, particularly come evening. I’ve got to that stage where I feel listless.’

  ‘I’ve never had children, Marilyn. In fact I can’t. I had a hurried abortion back when I was a student, and something went wrong. So no kids for us.’

  Marilyn didn’t quite know what to say. ‘Sorry to hear it. Have you thought of adopting?’

  ‘We’ve thought of it, but decided no. To be honest, I’m not really the maternal type, though please don’t take that as a criticism of you. We’re all different.’

  Marilyn made the tea. She was about to pick up the tray but Sue took it from her.

  ‘I’ll carry, you lead.’

  Marilyn wondered if she’d misjudged Sue. She spoke well and seemed considerate. ‘So you were a student?’ she asked, sitting down and propping her feet up on the couch. ‘At university?’

  ‘Yes. I did a degree in business economics. I’m not as stupid as I look.’ She gave a slightly throaty laugh. ‘People underestimate me, and I like it that way. It gives me the upper hand. Keep this to yourself but I make a lot of the decisions, Marilyn, not Wayne. It’s me that decides the future course of the company. I used to make quiet suggestions to Phil about good property investments, and he always listened to me. It’s a bit harder with Wayne, even though he’s my husband. It was me that decided to offer the job to Gordon. I’ve always thought he was a decent guy who worked hard. It was me that decided to ditch Sorrento. I never liked him after he made a pass at me a couple of years ago at a party. And his recent plans were half-baked. I expected to see him there last night, though. I don’t know where he’s got to.’

  ‘He gave me the shudders,’ Marilyn admitted. ‘He never tried it on with me, but I could feel his eyes all over me whenever we met.’

  ‘Exactly. So we women need to stick together. Which is why I’ve come round for this chat, since Wayne and Gordon are both out. Men are just far too competitive and extreme, Marilyn. Everything seems to come down to willy-waggling and unnecessary violence. I just don’t like it.’ She paused. ‘You have a background in property development, don’t you?’

  Marilyn nodded. ‘And sales. That was before I had the children, though I’ve worked part time in recent years.’ She poured the tea and waited. Was there a proposition coming?

  * * *

  In their Wareham home, Sophie Allen’s husband, Martin, was in the sitting room fiddling with the stereo.

  ‘It’s still not my favourite though.’ Tracy Daunt, Matt Silver’s wife, was in a deep discussion with Martin Allen about the merits of different Jacqui Dankworth albums. ‘I saw her at the Harrogate music festival some years ago. It was great jazz, and then she did an encore — Sitting On Top of the World. It’s an old blues classic, apparently. It was stunning. Someone told me that she took it a lot faster than most blues groups do. Just perfect. I was on my feet, jigging around, and nearly spilt my glass of wine.’

  ‘I like blues. It goes down well with a pint of decent beer,’ Sophie said. ‘I keep meaning to pop down to Swanage for one of the blues festival weekends, but I’ve never made it. The one time I did go it was because there’d been a murder, so I was otherwise engaged. We did have to visit a couple of the pubs, and some of the bands sounded pretty good. Very “sixties” though. Right up your street, Tracy.’ She laughed.

  ‘Oh, that hurts. I was just about to offer to clear the dishes away, but I think I’ll have a sulk instead.’

  ‘I couldn’t sulk, not after that food.’ Laura McGreedie had managed to eat more than she’d expected to. ‘I don’t know where you found that husband of yours, Sophie, but if you ever want to trade him in, I’d be interested. He cooks like a dream.’

  Sophie nodded. ‘He does, doesn’t he? That’s why I stick with him through thick and thin. Love may come and go, but good food lasts forever. Jade does the food shopping, Martin cooks it and I enjoy it. Seems a fair division of labour to me.’ She reached across and squeezed Martin’s hand.

  Martin had really come up trumps with the food this evening, particularly the venison en croute with a stilton topping. Laura looked pale and drawn, clearly worried about her forthcoming course of chemotherapy, but she’d obviously enjoyed having an evening out among friends and had more than held her own in the conversation. She was looking more tired now, though.

  ‘Sulk over,’ Tracy said. ‘Let’s get busy clearing the debris. Come on you two. These three coppers clearly need to chat. Alternatively, we three spouses could sit here and enjoy our liqueurs, and they can clear the table and chat in the kitchen. Doesn’t that seem fairer to you? Of course it does. Get cracking, you three.’ She pushed her husband to his feet, jabbed Kevin McGreedie in the ribs with her elbow and glared at Sophie. ‘We can put our feet up, swap cooking tips and gossip about you behind your backs.’

  Sophie dutifully led her colleagues into the kitchen, each carrying a load of dishes and cutlery.

  ‘Do we need to talk?’ Matt asked her while they stacked the dishwasher.

  ‘If you want. At the moment we’re still trying to find out more about this Sorrento character who was found dead yesterday.’ Sophie gave a short summary of their progress.

  ‘Are you sure it’s linked to the other deaths?’ Matt said. ‘Could have been coincidence, surely?’

  ‘Last weekend I saw him looking at the first crime scene through binoculars. Why would he be doing that?’

  Matt shrugged. ‘I’m not questioning you, Sophie, I’m just making suggestions. If you’re convinced, then that’s fine. Do you have another connection?’

  ‘We’re working on it.’

  He looked at her. ‘Why do I get the impression you’re holding something back? That’s not like you.’

  She was saved by a call on her mobile phone. It was Rae Gregson.

  ‘Ma’am, you were right. We followed him to the central gardens. He met a couple of other men. One was the guy in the photo you had. Mitchell, I think you said? The other was the Woodruff guy, from what you described. The problem is, the photos don’t show much. It was too misty and drizzly, and our guy kept his collar up and his umbrella down. They talked for about ten minutes, then he got back in his car and drove off. We followed the other two back towards Poole. Woodruff dropped Mitchell off first, presumably at his house, then drove home. Nice house with a big garden. Very posh area. And I got more information about a certain councillor into the bargain.’

  ‘Thanks, Rae. Get yourself home now. And tell Rose thanks from me for giving up one of her free evenings.’

  ‘She’s a real laugh, ma’am, and a totally mad driver as well. We might go for a couple of drinks before we split up. Apparently she knows a pub where they serve chilli and rice until late on a Saturday night. Sounds good to me.’

  Sophie was smiling as she replaced her phone.

  ‘Good news?’ Kevin McGreedie asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. But that’s all I’m saying at the moment.’

  CHAPTER 27: Proposal

  Sunday, Week 2

  The following day was a Sunday, but Barry Marsh was in the incident room early that morning. He wanted peace and quiet in order to analyse the
photographic evidence from Friday’s murder scene, now the details were all in. The trouble was, he couldn’t assemble a picture in his mind. All at once, he shoved the papers into a folder and made his way out to his car. He would have to visit Morden Bog, there was nothing else for it.

  Twenty minutes later, he was turning into the gravel parking area on the southern side of the reserve. He spoke briefly to the uniformed officer on duty there, then walked along the rough track into the scrubby woodland. The track petered out after about fifty yards, ending in a shadowy cul-de-sac wide enough to accommodate two vehicles, side by side. This was where they had seen two sets of faint tyre tracks, along with blood scatter on some of the nearby foliage.

  Barry stood to one side, photos in hand, trying to visualise the scene. If a vehicle had already been parked on the left side of the small clearing, it would have forced Sorrento to pull in on the right, with his door very close to where the assault seemed to have occurred. Someone could have been hiding just behind that bush, only a yard or two away from where Sorrento would have been getting out of his car. If he’d had a rock in his hand ready, he could have moved forward quickly and hit Sorrento on the side of the head when he was at a disadvantage, off balance as he started to straighten up. The spot was gloomy even in daylight. At dusk it would have been difficult to spot a second person, particularly if Sorrento’s attention was being distracted by whoever had lured him to the scene. It all seemed to fit. The forensic team’s vehicle expert was fairly sure that the tyre tracks on the right were that of a four-by-four, possibly a Range Rover. That would tally with the boss’s sighting of Sorrento’s vehicle the previous weekend. The blood spatter on the nearby foliage suggested a hard blow and the trail of disturbed undergrowth matched the image of Sorrento’s body being dragged the twenty yards or so to its resting place in the densest clump of shrubs. The areas of flattened undergrowth beside the edges of the clearing indicated that the vehicles had turned before leaving. The drivers would not have wanted to reverse down that narrow track at night.

  So, two people, probably arriving in a single vehicle, waiting for Sorrento to arrive. Sorrento would have known at least one of them. Or maybe someone he knew and trusted drove him to this secluded spot under some pretext or other. Whichever it was, he was hit on the head with a rock on arrival, and his body dragged away and hidden. The two vehicles were then driven away, one man in each. Or maybe there were more than two assailants? One good thing, something the assailants presumably hadn’t thought of, was that if one of the vehicles had been Sorrento’s Range Rover, then it was traceable. The registration was on record, thanks to the boss’s observations the previous weekend.

  The rock used in the fatal assault hadn’t just been carelessly tossed aside, so what would they have done with it? Taken it with them for a couple of miles, then disposed of it somewhere else on the heath, maybe hurling it out of the car window? It hardly mattered. There were so many lumps of rock around the place that it would never be found, particularly if they’d taken the time to drop it in one of the dozens of small, boggy pools.

  Marsh now felt that he understood the sequence of events surrounding Sorrento’s murder. But why would he have been killed? The DCI was fairly confident. She felt that internal tensions within the gang had erupted into violence following the death of the old leader, Phil Woodruff. Maybe Sorrento had made a move for the top job and had underestimated the opposition he’d encounter. She’d been puzzled by the prison visit to Frimwell. That alone could explain the descent into extreme violence. Had Sorrento upset Frimwell in some way? Had Frimwell got a message to the outside world, instructions to deal with the over-confident Sorrento?

  Marsh walked to his car and drove back to the incident room. Too many imponderables. He arrived to find his boss staring out of the window, seemingly deep in thought. She looked up as he approached.

  ‘Morning, ma’am. I’ve been back to the nature reserve to check over the tyre track patterns. I think I see how it fits.’ He went on to explain his ideas.

  ‘Sounds right,’ she replied. ‘Good work. We need to start tying it all together. We have so many loose ends it’s like a tangled ball of wool at the moment. Can you start tomorrow on this councillor, Blythe? He could be the link between the Armitage murders and Sorrento’s.’

  ‘Of course.’ Marsh looked at the clock. ‘I need to be going soon. I’ll get a quick sandwich in the canteen, then I’ll be off. Gwen’s coming over this afternoon. We’ll probably go for a walk along the front, then we’re heading out for a meal this evening.’

  ‘Well, give her my best wishes. I’ll be here for an hour or two yet, then I’m off for the rest of the day. We all need a few hours to unwind, Barry. By the way, I need to find something to keep Blackman and McCluskie occupied. But whatever it is, it can’t be anything sensitive. I can’t have them blundering about putting things at risk. Any ideas would be very welcome.’

  * * *

  Marsh made his way to the jewellers, as he’d arranged the previous week, then drove back to his flat in Swanage. It was about time he moved somewhere closer to his work, but it would have been premature to do so with his relationship becoming more serious by the week.

  The afternoon stroll was very relaxing and enjoyable. The sun glinted on the rippling wave-tops as he and Gwen strolled along the promenade at Swanage, and then out to Peveril Point before returning to the town for a cup of tea. They returned to his flat to change before heading out for the evening. Barry had booked a corner table at the local Italian restaurant, and by mid-evening the couple were enjoying their food.

  ‘Wow, fantastic wine, Barry. It’s not like you to splash out on one this expensive. Is it a special occasion? Have I missed something?’

  He answered quietly, ‘Yes it is.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a small, velvet-covered box, placing it on the table in front of Gwen. He flipped it open, revealing a glinting diamond ring. ‘Gwen, will you marry me?’

  She was silent for what seemed like hours, looking alternatively at the ring and her boyfriend. Tears began to glisten in the corners of her eyes. ‘Oh, yes,’ she finally said. ‘Yes, yes, yes.’ She reached across the table and put her arms around him, and the couple half-stood, hugging each other. Then Gwen pulled away, allowing Barry to slide the ring onto her finger, to a ripple of applause from the nearby diners, who’d all been watching in smiling silence.

  ‘Barry! You fantastic, lovely, thoughtful person. You’ve totally surprised me, and I didn’t think that was possible.’

  ‘I do love you, Gwen,’ he whispered.

  ‘I know.’ She took a gulp of wine. ‘And I’ve known for ages that you’re the one for me.’

  They continued to look at each other, smiling, over dessert.

  CHAPTER 28: Dark Horse

  Monday morning, Week 3

  Detectives Stu Blackman and Phil McCluskie made their way apprehensively towards Sophie Allen’s office. She was reading the preliminary autopsy report on Tony Sorrento, and set it aside as the two men knocked on the open door.

  ‘Come in, guys.’ She pointed towards the two chairs in front of her desk. ‘You did a good job on crosschecking all the forensic data, so thanks for that.’

  The two men visibly relaxed.

  ‘I have another job for you. It’s a good bit trickier, but I’m sure you’ll cope. There’s a company operating out of Bournemouth that owns a string of bars, pubs and clubs. Maybe even a couple of massage parlours. They’re all spread out across the Bournemouth and Poole area. They’re involved in these murders, but we don’t know how or why. Sorrento was one of their directors. We need to gain a good bit more intelligence on them, and that’s your job. Find out everything there is to know about them, but without raising any suspicions on their part. Keep it completely low profile. The company’s called Woodruff Holdings. Barry and I have already visited their registered office a couple of times, so they know we’re interested in them. Don’t go near that place or approach any of their senior
staff. You can visit a few of the places they run, but keep it very low key and don’t let on that you’re cops. Don’t approach any other CID units about this. It’s got to be completely internal to us for the time being. Clear so far?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’ Blackman sat up, straight and businesslike, as if trying to impress. Shame about the ketchup stain on his tie, thought Sophie.

  ‘Fine. So I want a detailed dossier on them as soon as possible. You have a couple of days. You can move back to your own base now, by the way. This incident room is getting a bit too crowded, and we need your desk space. But don’t talk about this, not even to your CID buddies. Barry’s created a skeleton framework for your report with headings for what we want to know. You’ll find it in our group folder on the server. Here’s a hard copy. It has the network address on it. A word of warning. If you find anything unexpected, like links to other businesses or individuals, don’t follow them up without talking to me first. Any questions?’

  They shook their heads in unison.

  ‘Phil, this is an opportunity for you to redeem yourself. Show me the good detective that I know you can be. Okay?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ he replied.

  They left the office and went to their desks to clear their few belongings and take them back to the CID office. Marsh watched them leave, then went into Sophie’s office.

  ‘How did they take it, ma’am?’

  ‘Don’t know and don’t really care. Hopefully we’ll get something useful from them. Blackman looked as though he was all fired up, but it’s impossible to read McCluskie. He’s too hard-nosed.’

  ‘I see they’ve moved out. I didn’t know you were planning that.’

  ‘A safety precaution. If word gets out about what they’re doing, it’ll be taken as a routine CID investigation, not linked to us. And I expect word will get out. It’ll be hard for them not to blab to someone, particularly once McCluskie has had a few drinks. I don’t want our mole to have his suspicions aroused more than necessary.’