RUTHLESS CRIMES a totally captivating crime mystery (Detective Sophie Allen Book 9)

by MICHAEL HAMBLING

  The two detectives strolled around the neighbourhood of Bunting’s house, getting a feel for the geography of the area. Old terraced houses lined tidy and well-maintained streets. A network of narrow paths gave access to the rear of most of the properties, dating from the days of coal fires when the houses all had coal sheds in their back gardens and the delivery merchants needed access. It was in one such lane that Barry had spotted the young man watching the rear of Bunting’s house. Barry would not have attached so much importance to his observation of the watcher, if not for the way he had run off when he realised he’d been spotted. He might have been there for any number of reasons, but it was his panicked reaction on seeing Barry approach that was so suspicious. Barry guessed that he was about seventeen, tall and gangly, but his face had been obscured by the hoodie he’d been wearing.

  ‘This could be like a needle in a haystack,’ Stu grumbled. ‘If he was really up to no good, what are the chances of finding him?’

  ‘Better than you might think,’ Barry replied curtly, irritated by the remark. ‘He’s local, I’m sure. The way he made off and skidded around the corner at the far end of the lane meant he knew this area as likely as not. Lads hanging around on a bike one day will probably be doing the same on other days. Come on, Stu, don’t be so negative. This is what the job’s all about, trudging around somewhere, looking and listening. I’m trying to spot where he could have gone once he reached the road at the far end of the back lane. Turning right would have brought him back to the street with Bunting’s house on it, so I reckon he’d have gone in the opposite direction. He’d have turned left, which brings him out just here, so let’s have a wander.’

  The side street took them towards a busier road with some commercial premises about fifty yards along — a local shop, a launderette, a pub and a café. A play park was situated further on, in front of the local primary school. In the opposite direction the road headed south towards the town centre and the seafront. The two detectives walked towards the shop and Stu went in to buy a newspaper. He glanced at the sports pages and went to rejoin Barry.

  ‘Sergio Agüero,’ he said as they walked towards the park. ‘Scored again. What a player.’

  But Barry had spotted several youths on bikes, weaving in and out of the bushes in the park. ‘Look.’

  ‘They should be at school,’ Stu said.

  Barry shrugged. ‘Maybe. But we’re here to watch and learn. The guy we’re looking for isn’t one of them. My guess is that he’s a bit older. Let’s have a seat for a few minutes and listen to what they’re talking about, if anything.’

  But seeing the two men entering the park put an end to the three boys’ aimless cycling. They rode out through the narrow gate, turned and gave the detectives the finger, then sped away.

  Barry sighed. ‘So much for that bright idea. Do you think they realised we’re police?’

  ‘Doubt it,’ Stu said. ‘I think they’d react like that whoever we were. We’ve invaded their space.’

  ‘Where have they gone?’

  Stu Blackman walked back onto the street and looked along its length.

  ‘Heading down towards the front. That’s where kids sometimes used to hang out before we started getting tough with them for skiving off school. Worth a look?’

  ‘Why not? It’s not often I get a chance to have a wander around a place like this. But maybe we should be a bit more careful if we spot them.’

  It took the two detectives ten minutes to arrive at the seafront gardens. The sun had just peeked out from behind the autumn clouds and instantly what had been a stretch of somewhat tired green grass, dull flowers and grey sea now almost vibrated with colour. The sea, now blue, was flecked with the white of wave tops. Even the air seemed to have more life in it. Barry put on his sunglasses, took a deep breath and inhaled the salty breeze. He was about to say something but stopped. He laid a hand on Stu’s arm. He had spotted a group of teenagers in the distance.

  ‘Is that the same three?’ he asked.

  Stu peered past the nearby shrubs towards the narrow, landscaped gardens beside the beach promenade.

  ‘Looks like it. There’s a couple of others there too. They look older.’

  The two detectives descended a couple of steps onto the promenade and walked slowly in the direction of the group. Barry took a small map out of his pocket and pretended to study it as they approached. The three younger boys from the park rode away, leaving two older youths leaning against the wall, smoking.

  ‘That’s lucky. We can afford to get a bit closer now.’ Barry led the way back into the gardens and approached the pair. He pretended to point out a couple of landmarks on the map.

  ‘Is the sea-life centre much further?’ Stu asked the lads when they drew level.

  The untidier of the two answered. ‘Nah. Couple of minutes.’

  ‘Is it worth visiting?’

  The youth snorted. ‘Yeah. If you like that kind of thing.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks.’

  Barry had stayed back during the exchange, surreptitiously inspecting the two bikes leaning against the wall. There it was, the same model he’d seen on Saturday, propped against the fence at the rear of Bunting’s house. He took another glance at the youth who hadn’t spoken. He looked about eighteen, and the height was right, so was the build. The same hooded jacket and shoes. Barry indicated to Stu that they should move on, then stopped after a few yards.

  ‘Let’s get a selfie with the sea in the background,’ he said.

  He took out his phone, manoeuvred into a good position, then took a snap. Not bad, but the two lads were a bit blurred. He adjusted the zoom and took another two. Much better. They walked on.

  ‘Did you notice the bikes?’ Barry asked. ‘What did you think?’

  ‘They were very different,’ Stu replied. ‘One was a bit battered and grubby. It looked like a pretty ordinary model and had been through the wars. The other one looked flash and expensive. Why?’

  ‘Just curious to get your view. The good one was the one I saw on Saturday afternoon, behind Bunting’s house. I reckon the quieter guy, the one who didn’t speak, is the one we’re looking for. I want him identified and watched. As soon as we’re out of their sight, I’ll head back to the car. Can you hang around and keep an eye on him until I get back? I’ll get Rae and Tommy to take over from us. What do you think of Tommy, by the way? You’ll be aware that he’s joining our unit on a trial basis.’

  Stu shrugged. ‘He’s okay. He’s reliable and works hard when he has to. He’s not got a lot of initiative, though. I can’t see him going much further unless he gets to grips with the job.’

  Barry was silent. That wasn’t what he wanted to hear.

  * * *

  By mid-afternoon, DC Tommy Carter was still out on the streets, trying to track the meanderings of Barry’s teenager. He’d been following him since midday, time largely spent around the promenade and its landscaped gardens, wandering, seemingly at random, from one location to another. The young man seemed rather guarded with the people he met. Some of them were flamboyant and loud, others, like him, seemed more restrained and cautious.

  Tommy lost sight of him late in the afternoon when the lad went inside an amusement arcade that suddenly filled up with schoolchildren. He’d followed Barry’s instructions and not hurried about peering into corners and behind pillars. That was too much of a giveaway. So he waited outside, hoping to spot the youth coming out. By the time the young man finally appeared, Tommy was in a state of near-panic, having convinced himself that he’d failed miserably on his first assignment for the VCU. Things got better after that. The youth made his way to an upmarket house in a quiet residential street and went inside. He didn’t appear again. His home? Tommy hoped so. He was tired, hungry and cold. His immediate boss, Rae Gregson, was due to take over for the evening if required, but when she arrived to collect him, she told him further surveillance was probably unnecessary. The address that Tommy had radioed in showed that the family in residence h
ad an eighteen-year-old son. Tommy’s afternoon had not been wasted after all.

  Chapter 7: Knife

  Late Tuesday morning

  The hostel’s front door was just like any other in the rundown street — faded and chipped, its deep red surface dull and streaked. The whole frontage was shabby and could have done with a lick of paint. The only clue as to the building’s occupancy was a small plaque screwed to the wall beside the door, Beechwood Women’s Refuge. A dark-haired woman in a nurse’s uniform rang the doorbell, stepped back and waited. The door opened a crack, a security chain across the gap, and part of a face appeared, peering at her suspiciously.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve come to visit Louise Bennett,’ the nurse said. ‘I’m the replacement district nurse, Charmaine Cookson, come to check on her progress. I may need to change her dressings. I’ve also brought her some cakes for her birthday.’

  ‘Wait a tick.’

  The door closed, the safety chain was disengaged, and it opened just wide enough to admit Charmaine. She walked as far as the small reception desk, where the woman stood blocking her from moving any further.

  ‘You’ll need to sign in,’ she said. ‘I’m Bella Fisher, the warden. I’ll need all your details. What’s happened to Julie, our regular? She always comes in the afternoon.’

  ‘She’s gone down with a nasty bug. Some of the others have too. This is the first time I’ve done this area, and it’s more convenient if I do the calls in reverse order.’

  ‘Louise can’t manage the stairs very easily,’ Bella said. ‘You’ll have to go up. She’s in room fourteen. I’d normally come up with a new nurse, but I’m the only person on at this time in the morning. Can you find your way? It’s the door second from the end on the first floor. If you can’t wake her, come back down and I’ll bring a key.’

  Charmaine opened her carrier bag to show the warden the small collection of cakes. ‘It’s her birthday tomorrow, isn’t it? I’d have brought them then, but she isn’t due for another visit till the end of the week.’

  Bella used her swipe-card to unlock a door to the left of her desk and gestured for Charmaine to go on up. The stairway, lit in a dim, pale yellow, was steep and narrow, as to be expected in an old terraced property like this. At the top, a corridor opened up in front of her with several doors along its length. She made her way along the carpeted floor and knocked on the second from the end, then took her thin gloves off, putting them into her pockets.

  ‘Yes?’ a weak voice said.

  ‘It’s Charmaine, from the district nurse service.’ She spoke with a broad Irish accent. ‘I’ve just come to check on how your injuries are healing. And I’ve brought you some cakes for your birthday tomorrow.’

  The sound of shuffling feet could be heard inside, and the door opened.

  ‘Hi, Louise. I’m the temporary replacement for Julie, your usual nurse. I’ve bought some goodies for your birthday, but let’s have a quick look at you first.’ She held out the carrier bag for inspection, its tempting contents visible even in the poor light.

  The door opened wider, and Charmaine stepped inside. The small room was rather like a cell, an impression reinforced by the cheap, amateurish artwork on the walls. She placed her medical bag on a small table set against the wall and flipped it open.

  ‘Well, you’re looking better than I expected,’ she said, sliding on a pair of latex gloves and securing a thin nylon apron around her waist. ‘Sorry about these new hygiene requirements. I wouldn’t think you’re infectious, but I’ve been told these are a necessity now on all house calls. Where shall I put the cakes?’

  Louise, still half-asleep, looked at her somewhat suspiciously but indicated a shelf above the table. Charmaine started to empty the bag, watched by Louise.

  ‘Look, eclairs, cupcakes and Viennese whirls. We knew you’d like those.’ She continued to remove items from the bag. ‘And some really nice chocolate biscuits. They’re everyone’s favourites.’

  Louise stepped closer to examine the items.

  ‘And there’s this,’ Charmaine said, lifting a long, slender-bladed knife out of her medical bag. She slid it smoothly between Louise’s ribs, twisting it as it reached her heart. Louise uttered a shuddering sigh. Charmaine lodged her arm around Louise’s back to support her weight as she toppled, allowing her to slide onto the bed. ‘I’ll just leave the cakes with you. No charge. Not the blade, though. I still have need of that.’

  Charmaine glanced around the room and spotted an old towel on the back of a chair. She pulled it towards her and held it tight around the handle as she carefully drew the knife from Louise’s chest, then used it to wipe the blade clean of blood. Perfectly calm, she took a look around the room. Everything was as it should be. She covered Louise’s body with a thin blanket, and then spent several minutes searching through the two drawers and the small cupboard. She glanced at the mattress, now beginning to look decidedly damp and sticky with blood, and wiped the few surfaces she’d touched with a surgical wet wipe. She removed the apron and slipped it into her bag, replaced the latex gloves with her own and left the room, closing the door gently behind her.

  Charmaine smiled at the warden as she rejoined her in the downstairs lobby. ‘She’s not looking too bad, is she? She was very appreciative of the cakes. But she’s really tired and was ready for a nap. Maybe don’t disturb her for another hour or two?’

  She turned towards the front door. The warden let her out and closed the door behind her. Charmaine walked unhurriedly along the road to a parked car where a man was waiting in the driving seat. He already had the engine running and in seconds the shiny black BMW was driving away, heading towards the nearby main road. It was late morning and the sun had just come out.

  Chapter 8: Right Up Their Street

  Early Tuesday afternoon

  Detective Sergeant Gwen Davis from Southampton CID was the first detective to arrive at the scene. She was greeted by a uniformed constable at the hostel’s front door. Inside, the hysterical warden was being comforted by a second uniformed officer who’d arrived a few minutes earlier in one of the squad cars that was outside. She indicated for Gwen to go up the stairs. She arrived at Louise’s room to find another uniformed constable standing guard outside.

  ‘Nasty,’ he said. ‘Nothing’s been touched but there’s a lot of blood soaked into the bed underneath the body.’ He looked at Gwen and shook his head slightly. ‘It’s not a natural death, Sarge. It looks like a stabbing to me.’

  Gwen stepped into a protective suit and entered the room. She could smell the blood, that unmistakable taint to the air that always accompanies a violent, bloody death. The victim was lying on her back, seeming to gaze at the ceiling, with her mouth slightly open and her eyes filmed over. It was a thin, pinched face, even after death when the muscles usually relax and tensions vanish. Did it look as though she’d had a troubled life? Gwen couldn’t tell. She took a look around, checking for signs of a struggle but not finding any. She returned to the corridor, closing the door behind her, and removed her nylon hair cover, which always made her feel too hot.

  ‘We’ll just wait for my boss to arrive.’

  Gwen’s immediate senior was DCI Jack Dunning. He arrived within a few minutes, looking unconcerned. ‘You said it looked like an assassination. Are you having me on, or do I need to refer you to the funny farm?’

  Gwen shook her head, her dark curls brushing her shoulders. ‘I’m serious, boss. The victim’s name is Louise Bennett. A woman masquerading as a district nurse came to see her, saying she was here to change her dressings. Middle-aged and well-spoken, according to the warden. She even had some cakes for Louise and showed them to the warden. She went upstairs and was back within ten minutes. The warden went up at lunchtime to see what Louise wanted to eat and found her. She was lying dead on the bed, covered by a loose blanket, but the blood had soaked through. I lifted the corner with a pen and the wound appears to be right over the heart. If that isn’t an assassination, I don’t kno
w what is. It sounds as if it was planned, and very cold-blooded.’

  Her boss grimaced. ‘Okay, I take your point. What was she doing here, this Louise Bennett?’

  They climbed the stairs.

  ‘That’s the strange thing. It’s a women’s refuge, so most of the residents are victims of domestic violence. You know, thumped by their partners. According to the warden, Louise’s injuries fitted that pattern. A couple of bruises around the face that were healing, a fractured wrist and a bad cut near her right knee. But she didn’t arrive by the normal referral route, from a surgery or A and E unit. Someone got her in here, but Bella Fisher — she’s the warden — never got the paperwork. She doesn’t know anything about Louise’s background. It’s a mystery. I had a quick look at the inmates’ records and it’s true. She was admitted late on Saturday but there’s no other information. The whole thing’s weird.’

  They entered Louise’s room. Gwen stood back to let her boss peer around the somewhat gloomy interior. Like her, he raised the thin blanket with a pen and looked at the blood-soaked jumper that Louise was wearing. He backed away.

  ‘We’ll have to wait for forensics to get to work in here,’ Jack said. The two detectives left the room and made their way back down the stairs. ‘You’re right. It doesn’t make a lot of sense, does it? Why would anyone kill a hostel resident in such a cold-blooded way? It just doesn’t fit the pattern.’ He shook his head slowly from side to side, and ran his fingers through his cropped, sandy-coloured hair. ‘And someone posing as a nurse did this? It’s almost beyond belief. I’ll need to get on the blower to the chief. It’s distinctly odd, and I don’t like that.’