by Helen Oliver
A sturdy middle-aged woman, hair under a scarf and wearing a checked smock, opened the door. “Yes?”
Hammond showed his warrant card. “Mrs Anne Morris?”
Two police officers. Fear in her eyes.
“DCI Hammond and DC Nolan. May we come in?”
Though dread crossed her face, she couldn’t help herself. “I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a mess.”
She wasn’t, of course. This woman was never in a mess.
Hammond said, “Thank you,” and Mrs Morris led them into the front room where metres of clear plastic covered the furniture.
She apologized for not offering them somewhere to sit down, dabbed her upper lip and said, “Is it bad news?”
Hammond said carefully, “I do have some. But none, I hope, that will affect you too closely.” He took a breath. “To put you in the picture – before you see it on the news – I have to tell you that your son’s employer, Mrs April Parsons, has been murdered.”
A mixture of relief and distress crossed the woman’s face. “Dear God.”
“Before you ask what this has to do with you,” Hammond said, “let me explain.” He looked around. “I would have suggested we sit down to talk about this.”
Mrs Morris said, “We can go in the garden.”
Hammond smiled. “Lead the way.”
They followed her into the neat back garden and sat at a table with matching chairs. Nolan smoothed his notebook, and Hammond said, “In our efforts to find Mrs Parsons’s killer, we need the help of those closest to her, or who knew her on a regular basis. Fortunately,” he said, “we’ve been able to trace almost everyone in those categories, except your son.” He held her gaze. “Which is why we’re here.”
“I understand.” She hesitated, “I say that, but why couldn’t you have asked Russell?”
“Because we’re not sure of his whereabouts.”
“He sometimes works away.”
Hammond leaned forward. “When did you last speak to him, Mrs Morris?”
“On Friday.”
“Friday just gone?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say anything about terminating his work in Browbridge?”
“For Mrs Parsons, you mean?”
Hammond nodded.
She frowned. “No. He loves working there.”
“We know he wasn’t working yesterday.” Hammond leaned forward onto the table. “I hope you won’t be too fazed if I tell you we need to search this house?”
She raised her eyebrows. “To make sure he’s not hiding under my roof?”
“It’s a question of not leaving any stone unturned.”
“Please. Go ahead.” Eyeing Nolan, she said, “You’d better take care you don’t get anything on that nice suit.”
Nolan grinned. “No worries.”
The three stood up from the table and tucked their chairs in.
In the living room again, Hammond asked, “Have you a photo of Russell that we could take a copy of?”
Mrs Morris lifted plastic film away from a desk standing against the wall. Opening a drawer, she said. “It’s not up-to-date. I did something stupid to my computer and wiped off all my latest photos.”
Nolan asked, “Anything on your phone?”
“No, I’m sorry. I’m fine on the computer at work, but that’s about it.” She opened an envelope. “You can have this. Even though it’s… ” she looked at the date on the back, “heavens above, swing the oil lamp.”
Hammond pulled out his phone, copied the photo. “Just for the record.”
She frowned. “Why do you need a photo?”
“Procedure. You can imagine what it’s like at our end. Dotting all the i’s, etc.” Waiting a moment, he asked, “Your relationship with your son, Mrs Morris. Is it good?”
“It’s very good.”
Hammond waited a second or two. “Have you had any cause to worry about Russell’s state of mind?”
“Absolutely not.”
An unequivocal no – or had doubt crept in? Hammond nodded. “Okay.”
As expected, not a square centimetre revealed any sign of Sykes. A bedroom, once his, housed a wardrobe and chest-of-drawers, still with clothes belonging to him. Hammond thanked Mrs Morris, gave her his card and asked her to call if Russell got in touch, or if she heard from any of his friends. Approaching the door he turned, “Would you say your son is a straightforward kind of guy?”
“If you’re asking if he’s gay, no he’s not.”
Watching the tilt of her head as she tucked stray hairs under the scarf, he said. “I wasn’t asking that, Mrs Morris. I meant I hoped you’d say if he’d ever been in any sort of trouble.”
She wiped her hands on the smock. “I see.”
So there was? “Is there something you’d like to tell us?”
She took a quick breath. “It was ages ago,” she said. “He was trying to help, but the police at the time didn’t see it that way.”
“Why was that?”
Nolan opened his note book again. Glancing at him, Mrs Morris cleared her throat. “It was at night. After a stag do.”
Hammond asked, “When was this?”
“That’s a tricky one.” She pulled at the corners of her mouth. “It’ll have been at least six years ago.”
Hammond said, “Not that long then.” He paused. “Where did this take place?”
“Middlesbrough.” She took a breath. “The groom, Mick, was dressed as Marilyn Monroe.”
Nolan’s mouth twitched.
Hammond said, “Go on.”
“There was a fight outside a club. A big bruiser of a bloke attacked Mick, tore off his wig and punched him in the face. Russell found himself wading in to help his friend. The next thing he knew, they were all herded into a police van.” She took a handkerchief from her smock pocket and blew her nose. “Can you believe it? Of all of them, my son was the one they charged!”
Hammond asked, “What was the charge?”
Her mouth tightened. “Causing an affray.” She swallowed hard. “They spent a night in the cells. Next day they let the others go.”
Hammond asked, “Was Russell found guilty?”
“He went to prison for two months.”
Jason said, “So he never got to the wedding?”
Mrs Morris shook her head, eyed the ceiling as if she’d only just noticed it. “I suppose it’ll be held against him forever.”
“It’ll be on record.” Hammond reached out to shake her hand. “Thank you, Mrs Morris.” Clasping his for a moment, she thanked him for making sure the plastic sheeting was still in place.
With the door closing behind them, Hammond wondered about Mrs Morris’s next move. Strip more wallpaper, or see what was in the drinks cupboard?
Nolan reached for his seat belt. “Central Data Base, sir? Fingerprints and DNA.”
“Yep.” Hammond checked his rear mirror and pulled out.
7
Two consecutive days at the General could be habit forming. Cally by-passed Reception, walked past the café with its wafts of coffee, and stopped in front of a large frame filled with photographs of executive staff members. She narrowed her eyes, tried guessing which photograph belonged to the woman she’d come to see. She half squinted, picked one, opened her eyes. Wrong. Ah, there she was: middle row, third from the left. Harriet Bloom, Operative Manager. Cally looked at April Parsons’s friend. Dark hair, glossy lipstick, photogenic.
This was going to be hard. She turned, stepped out of the way of a wheelchair and returned through the automatic doors to the exterior waiting area. She took out her phone, tapped in the hospital number.
“Good morning, General Hospital. How can I help you?”
“This is Detective Sergeant Burns. May I speak to Ms Harriet Bloom?”
“Hold on a moment, please, I’ll put you through."
At the same time as an ambulance slowed up in front of A & E, a voice in Cally’s ear said, “Miss Bloom speaking.”
“Miss Bloom
, this is Detective Sergeant Cally Burns. I’d like to talk to you. I’m just outside the hospital. May I meet you in Reception?
Miss Bloom sounded unsurprised. “Of course. I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes.”
Cally switched off her phone and made for Reception. Privacy respected, she watched patients queue behind the obligatory red line. Next, spotting the woman, true to her photo, Cally stepped forward. “Miss Bloom?”
Harriet Bloom drew her aside. “It’s bad news isn’t it. I have to say I didn’t think he’d make it. God, so young. Fifteen or sixteen?”
Cally shook her head. “We need to talk.”
“Of course. We can use a room next to the pharmacy.”
Harriet Bloom led the way, pushed open the door into a small room. “Do sit down, Sergeant Burns.”
Cally said, “Shall we both sit? I think we may have crossed wires.”
Hope lit up the woman’s face. “The boy’s all right?”
“Which boy?”
Miss Bloom frowned. “The cyclist knocked down the other night. I didn’t for a moment think he’d survive.”
“You’re talking about Sunday’s accident on Browbridge Hill?”
Miss Bloom nodded. “Hit and run.”
Cally said, “The boy was airlifted to Leeds General Infirmary. I’m afraid I’m not aware of his present condition.” She paused. “I’m here about something completely different.”
Taking the initiative, Cally sat down. Harriet Bloom sat on the other side of the low table, one hand tightly clasped in the other. “Tell me straight away. Is it Mother?”
Cally said, “It’s not your mother,” and added gently, “I believe you’re a friend of Mrs April Parsons.”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’m very sorry to tell you, Miss Bloom, that Mrs April Parsons was found dead at her home yesterday morning.”
The woman’s hands flew to her face. “But I was only with her on Monday. We had supper together.”
“We know that, Miss Bloom, from the message you left on her answer phone.”
“That was early yesterday morning. I didn’t get an answer. I haven’t tried her since.” She paused. “Was she already dead?”
“I’m afraid so. And I’m also very sorry to tell you that Mrs Parsons did not die from natural causes.”
Harriet Bloom moistened her lips. “But this is dreadful, April was so happy. She was longing to be a granny.” A look of disbelief crossed her face. “She can’t have killed herself, she would never…”
Cally reached across, touched the woman’s arm. “Mrs Parsons didn’t take her own life. She was strangled.”
Harriet Bloom appeared to sink within herself. “Oh, God.”
Cally asked, “Can I get you anything? Tea or coffee from the café? It might help the shock.”
She shook her head. “Did you find her?”
“No, it was her cleaner.”
“Mrs Worsnop?”
Cally nodded. “I’ll need to talk with you further, Miss Bloom.” She paused. “I understand you live with your mother.” The woman nodded, and Cally said, “Mrs Parsons’s death will almost certainly be reported in tonight’s Evening Post. You should probably go home. You’ll want to prepare her; you won’t want her hearing it from someone else.”
Her head still shaking in disbelief, Harriet Bloom said, “That’s thoughtful of you.”
Cally pushed back her chair, stood up. At a light rap at the door Harriet also stood. A tall blonde woman – creamy skinned – slid a document file from under her arm. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Harriet. I thought your meeting would be over.”
“Susan,” Miss Bloom said, “it looks as if I’ll have to take time off today.” She turned to Cally. “Detective Sergeant Burns, this is our CEO, Mrs Jukes.”
Susan Jukes put out her hand, shook Cally’s. “Nice to meet you.”
Harriet said, “Sergeant Burns is here because I was witness to a traffic accident.”
Concerned, Susan Jukes said, “Clearly something serious.”
Mystified, Cally said, “I’m not totally up to date.”
Mrs Jukes patted the file. “No need to worry about this for now, Harriet. If you need me for anything before you leave, I’ll be with Chris Wilkes in the pharmacy.” She touched her arm. “We’ll talk tomorrow,” she said, and left the room.
Watching the door close, Cally took a breath, “Miss Bloom, I assume you have you a reason for…”
“Holding back about April?”
Cally waited a moment. “I’d go further than that.” She looked the woman in the eye. “For misleading Mrs Jukes. What made you do that?”
The tendons in the slender neck tightened. “I don’t know. I’m sorry. It seemed so dreadfully personal. April was such a close friend. Her eyes glistened with tears. “I don’t know how I’ll come to terms with it.” She swallowed hard. “I’m not ready to share it with anyone. Especially not in a work situation.”
Cally said quietly, “You’ll have to get used to it. Pretending it hasn’t happened won’t make it go away.”
“You’re right of course.”
Cally checked the clasp on her bag. “Are you all right to drive? I can take you home.”
“No. Thank you.”
Cally put out her hand, shook Harriet’s. “I’m sorry to have brought such upsetting news.”
“You’ve been very kind.” She hesitated. “And so incredibly understanding.”
Cally opened the door and stepped into the corridor. She looked back at Bloom for a moment. “I’ll be in touch,” she said, and made for the café. Choosing a scone, she realized she was shocked. In her job she’d heard plenty of lies. But never one where she was present and aware of the true situation.
Passing a row of patients waiting for transport, she glanced sideways and spotted Susan Jukes coming away from the pharmacy. She didn’t want to make things awkward for Miss Bloom, but a short chat with the CEO wouldn’t do any harm. She raised a hand as the woman approached. Mrs Jukes smiled. “Was there something else?”
Cally asked, “May we talk?”
“Of course. Let’s retrace our steps.”
Inside the small room again, the CEO looked expectantly at Cally, who said, “I came to see Miss Bloom because I had to break bad news.”
“About the accident?”
“She had witnessed an accident, yes, but that has nothing to do with my department. My reason for coming here was to break the news that a close friend had been murdered.”
Mrs Jukes looked horrified, “How dreadful. I wonder why Harriet didn’t say so.”
Cally nodded. “My thoughts, too.” She paused. “I’m a member of the murder investigation team. It’s part of my job to talk to as many people as possible who knew the victim. Harriet Bloom was possibly Miss Bloom’s oldest friend and the last person to see her alive.” Cally thought for a moment longer. “It could be that – being terribly shocked – talking about the road traffic accident seemed the only option.”
“Poor Harriet. We all react differently.”
Cally lightened her tone. “How long have you known Miss Bloom?”
“I’ve been CEO for two years. Harriet’s been here longer.” She paused. “I could verify from her CV–”
Cally broke in. “There’s no need.”
“If you’re sure.” Susan Jukes smiled. “I’ve had CVs coming out of my ears. We’re interviewing next week for a new Deputy Chief. There are three likely candidates. One, actually, is Harriet Bloom.” She smiled. “A valued member of staff.”
*
Letting in the clutch, Cally wondered who Susan Jukes reminded her of. If it didn’t come to her soon, it was going to rankle.
8
Pete Worsnop was far from happy. “Why does she have to come ’ere?”
Lyn said, “Because she offered. They already said if I thought of owt, I were to get in touch. Well I have done, and I want to get it over with.”
Pete’s upper lip twitched. He took
cigarettes from his shirt pocket.
“Not indoors, Pete. Think of littl’uns.”
He went outside the back door, lit up and took a drag. Finding Mrs P’s body was affecting Lyn badly, and there was something she wasn’t telling him. Three more drags and he pinched out the cigarette, wedged the remains on the windowsill with a small stone and marched back into the kitchen. “I’ll not put up with any more o’ this.”
Lyn looked up from the magazine she wasn’t reading. “You’ll not make me change my mind. I’ll go mad if I don’t get this off me chest.”
It was about the belt round Mrs Parsons’s neck, and for reasons Lyn herself didn’t understand, she hadn’t told him. Pete didn’t often give her anything. Coming up with that belt had been something of a red-letter day. She’d had to look pleased, surprised. She’d certainly been surprised. She knew she looked silly wearing it; even on the last hole it hardly met round her middle. He must have thought it was sexy: leather with large metal studs. Was it meant to turn her on? Or him? Whoever, whichever, it hadn’t worked.
He stared her out. “Well?”
Lyn steadied her breath. “Mrs Parsons was strangled with the belt you gave me.”
“Christ, woman.” His eyebrows met in a dark line. “It were never my belt.” He pushed his face close to hers. “I give it you.” His frown deepened. “What the fuck was it doing round Mrs P’s neck?”
“Strangling her, you bloody moron!”
His voice dropped. “You didn’t do it?”
“Course I didn’t!”
Standing in the doorway, DS Burns cleared her throat. “Sorry to interrupt, folks.”
Lyn wheeled round. “I’m sorry, we didn’t hear you.”
Cally raised a hand. “Don’t worry Mrs Worsnop, we all need to let off steam from time to time.” She turned to Pete. “Mr Worsnop?”
Pete’s face paled from maroon to off-white. He nodded and Cally said, “I’d like to speak to your wife alone.”
Worsnop’s eyes swivelled to Lyn, who said. “You can mow that grass.”
“Good idea,” he said, and hurried into the garden.