Better the Devil You Know

by James Whitworth

  Miller ordered coffees, then blackberry cake and an almond croissant for Miller and Newbold respectively, before settling back into the embrace of the secluded back corner of the coffee shop.

  “I think I should bring you up to speed on where we stand with the Samantha Thompson investigation,” Miller said.

  He paused as the waitress laid cutlery on the table. Miller smiled. He recognised the girl.

  When she had returned to the counter, he continued. “I have been suspended from duty as I was the last person – except, as DS Riddle was so kind to point out, the killer – to see Samantha alive. So until we can verify the fact that I was at home on my own, I’m off the case.”

  “Surely the Chief doesn’t suspect you of any involvement with her murder,” Riddle said.

  “Honestly?” Miller said. “I don’t think he does. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t be heartbroken if I had murdered someone, but I think in this case he has no real concerns. He had to suspend me, but let’s just hope it’s only for a short time.”

  “So the priority is to clear your name?” Newbold asked.

  Miller could not help but smile at her guileless enthusiasm for what she saw as a noble quest.

  “I appreciate that,” Miller said, “but no. The priority is to find out what happened to Samantha Thompson after I saw her walk up Church Street towards the 199 steps.”

  Riddle opened his notebook, licked the tip of his pencil, and began to write. “So you last saw her at eleven o’clock?”

  Miller nodded.

  “And according to Doctor Powell, his best estimate is that she was murdered between midnight and two in the morning. That means she was murdered at least an hour after you last saw her.”

  “Exactly,” Miller said. “It was a cold night, with a lot of snow on the ground. I would guess it would take her five minutes to walk to the foot of the 199 steps, say ten minutes to climb, then another ten minutes to reach the chapel and her cottage. That’s 25 minutes, let’s say 30 in case she stopped for any reason. That still leaves half-an-hour that’s unaccounted for. So our priority is to find out what Samantha Thompson was doing for those 30 minutes. Find that out and we’ll be a long way to discovering who her murderer was.”

  “What could she have been doing?” Newbold asked.

  “I think that’s what we need to be finding out,” Riddle said.

  “I know,” Newbold said, choosing to ignore Riddle’s rather condescending tone. “What I mean is what could she have been doing? What are the options? Everywhere was closed, the pubs up Church Street have all confirmed that they had shut promptly at eleven – there were few people still out by then. If she went straight to the 199 steps and climbed them she would have been up on the east cliff by eleven-fifteen. It was very cold, so I doubt she would have lingered more than a few minutes and certainly not for three quarters of an hour. At the top is the church that would have long been shut up. After that there’s just the chapel. I’ve spoken to the vicar and he says he was in his house on Henrietta Street by ten. The chapel would have been locked up. There’s nothing else up there. So what could she have been doing?”

  “Meeting someone?” Riddle said.

  “It’s possible,” Miller agreed, “but it seems unlikely. She didn’t mention meeting anyone.”

  “No,” Riddle said, “but she didn’t want you to walk her home. That might have been because she was planning to meet someone.”

  Miller thought for a moment. “True,” he said slowly. “It’s possible. But who the hell would she be meeting at midnight on the east cliff?”

  “Her murderer,” Riddle said, flatly.

  Chapter 4

  Riddle’s comment had been a flippant remark, but it had brought the discussion to a standstill. Miller, Riddle and Newbold were all picturing the scene. The deserted headland, the cold, desolate chapel with its bleak, windswept graveyard. Samantha Thompson walking through the darkness towards her cottage. Did she meet someone or was someone waiting for her?

  “Right,” Miller said suddenly, making Newbold jump. “Enough talk, we need to find a killer.”

  He stood up and started to put his coat on.

  Riddle and Newbold exchanged an awkward glance.

  “But sir,” Riddle said. “There’s no way you can be anywhere near the crime scene. Davis will have your badge.”

  “Have my badge?” Miller said. “This isn’t Kojak.”

  “Who’s Kojak?” Riddle and Newbold said in unison.

  Miller sighed. “I am fully aware of the situation,” he said as he wrapped a tan cashmere scarf around his neck.

  “Then where are you going?” Riddle asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Miller said as he turned to head for the exit, “I’m going to see your wife.”

  If the situation hadn’t been so serious, Miller would have laughed at the comical expression on his sergeant’s face. As he left Sherlock’s and headed up Flowergate, he glanced back into the cafe and saw that Riddle was still sitting with his mouth open.

  Of course Miller wanted to be at the murder scene. He needed to be there; but he was only too aware of what would happen if he went against Davis. For the moment he would have to rely on Riddle and Newbold to ask the right questions and report back. There was nothing he could do about it for now. He had to stay away from the investigation.

  But that didn’t mean he couldn’t go and visit a friend. The fact that the friend was married to his sergeant was neither here nor there. Nor was it relevant that Riddle’s wife happened to have been friends with Samantha Thompson.

  Miller smiled grimly to himself as he passed Botham’s cake shop. Of course, Chief Bloody Constable Davis may have a different view, but he would have to learn about the visit to express that view and Miller was damned if he was going to tell him.

  As Miller approached his apartment complex, the pale winter sun was finally managing to break through the stubborn clouds. He was walking quickly now, eager to get to his car and set off to see Maria Riddle. As he walked, his breath formed in front of him in short bursts. He took his mobile phone out of his inside jacket pocket. He hadn’t heard it ring or felt it vibrate, but there was always the off chance he had missed a call. Perhaps even a call from Dr Alice Laine. But the screen was blank. There had been no calls.

  Shoving the phone back into his pocket, Miller reached his car, started the engine and set off to see Maria Riddle.

  *

  As Miller drove the car out of Whitby in the direction of Goathland, DS Riddle was driving up Green Lane towards the town’s famous abbey. At the top of the steep hill, Riddle turned right onto Hawsker Lane. As the abbey started to recede in his rear view mirror, Riddle indicated left and pulled into Curlew Lane. The road headed straight for the cliff top, before bending sharply to the right. At this point it deteriorated, quickly turning into little more than a rough track. To the left was the chapel. On the other side was the row of four cottages. Just past here the lane ended at a low electric fence that marked the boundary of a farmer’s field.

  Riddle pulled the car over and switched the engine off. He turned to face PC Newbold. “Are you ready?”

  Newbold stole a glance in the sun visor’s mirror. Her dark brown eyes had the unmistakable glint of excitement. This would be the first time she had assumed the role of a detective sergeant. It may only be a temporary situation while Miller was suspended, but it was helping fulfil a lifelong ambition. She took a deep breath. “I’m ready,” she said.

  Curlew Lane Chapel had been built in 1868 when the number of the town’s Nonconformists had been at their peak. Although the neighbouring St Mary’s predates it and is by far better known, the chapel maintained a dedicated if modest congregation. Indeed, the chapel had flourished over the past fifty years, until erosion had enforced its imminent closure.

  Riddle held the small gate open for Newbold, as they walked into the graveyard. The far right hand corner was protected from the elements by a Scene of Crime tent. The SOCO team was moving in
and out of the tent, dressed in their white plastic suits. They looked to Riddle strangely ghost-like.

  “Come on,” he said, “let’s get this over with.”

  Riddle had seen many crime scenes and quite a few murder scenes, but if he had seen a hundred more he would have hardly been prepared for the scene that greeted him.

  In order for the SOCO team to have enough room to work, the tent had been erected to cover an area that included five graves. Down the left and right hand side of the tent were two sets of gravestones, both so weather beaten that the inscriptions were almost impossible to read. Despite the presence of these four graves and their headstones, there was no possibility of Riddle being in any doubt as to the focus of the SOCO team’s work.

  Situated in the middle of the tent was a rectangular block of stone which had been laid long ways north to south. It was lighter in colour than the gravestones and had suffered even more from erosion.

  Laid on top of the stone, like a mockery of an ancient queen in a grand cathedral, was the naked body of Samantha Thompson. As shocking as this was, what really stopped Riddle in his tracks was what had been laid across her chest. The body of a large, black crow with its lifeless wings fully spread open had been carefully placed across the torso of the corpse. Its wing tips had been spread so that they formed a cross shape. As Riddle’s gaze lowered he could see that there were deep cuts in the soles of both Samantha Thompson’s feet.

  “Jesus,” he said.

  “I doubt Jesus had anything to do with this,” a rich voice boomed.

  Riddle turned around to see the pathologist, Alan Powell resting a clipboard against the top of one of the gravestones. His broad shoulders belied the delicacy Powell could bring to his work. The son of a parish vicar in the Peak District town of Bakewell, Powell managed to combine tough police work with a level of care that cynicism and years in the job had eradicated from many of his colleagues.

  “Good morning, sir,” Riddle said. It seemed an incongruous thing to say, but like Miller he always struggled with the opening pleasantries of a murder investigation.

  Powell walked over to the body of Samantha Thompson. “I’ve seen some things in my time, but this is definitely new,” he said gesturing, as if it was required, towards the dead crow.

  PC Newbold had now joined Riddle next to the murder victim. Her right hand covered her mouth.

  “It’s not a pleasant sight,” Powell said, patting her shoulder. “But it may prove to be an important one.”

  Newbold was intrigued enough to remove her hand and move her gaze to the pathologist. “In what way, sir?”

  “Well, it’s your department, not mine, but in my experience the more out of the ordinary the case, the more we have to go on. Look around you,” he said waving his thick arms to signify the graveyard. “Imagine that all these people had been the victims of murder. The ones who had been stabbed or hit on the head with a hammer could have been the work of anyone, but this,” he pointed towards the corpse, “this gives you a lot to go on. It’s specific, not general.”

  “And do you have any specifics?” Riddle asked. He thought Powell was right, but it made him uncomfortable when the pathologist shifted from facts to speculation.

  Sensing this, Powell straightened up. “Quite right,” he said. “What would your boss think?” He walked to the head of the corpse and gently placed gloved hands on the victim’s temples. “With the usual caveat of waiting for the post-mortem, a few things are self-evident.”

  “Such as?” Riddle asked, trying not to look down at the body of his wife’s friend more than he had to.

  “The victim has a significant trauma to the back of her head. There’s little doubt it was the cause of death. Too early to be more specific, except to say a blunt rather than sharp object looks to be the case.”

  Riddle nodded, as he began to write in his notebook. “And she was sexually assaulted?” It was barely a question.

  “It’s a fair assumption,” Powell said, “especially considering the fact she’s as naked as the day she was born. But,” he added, “it would be a wrong assumption. Or at least that’s how it looks. I can see no sign of sexual interference. Nor for that matter, can I see any significant sign of a struggle.”

  “But she’s naked,” Riddle said, aware he was taking stating the obvious to a whole new level.

  “That she is, sergeant. But from what I can see, there has been no sexual assault.”

  “So why is she naked?” Newbold asked. “It can hardly have been to delay identification. She only lives – lived – fifty yards away from where she was murdered.”

  “If the killer knew that,” Riddle said.

  It was a good point, Newbold conceded. There was always the chance that the killing was a random act of savagery. But why remove all the clothes? And that was only half of it.

  “And then there’s the bird,” Riddle said, seemingly continuing Newbold’s train of thought. “What the hell is that about?”

  At that moment, the tent was buffeted by a strong gust of wind. The weather was taking a distinct turn for the worse. The temperature seemed to be barely higher than the night before and now a gale was ripping across the headland. Newbold shivered. Despite the wind, it had suddenly seemed to have gone eerily quiet. Powell, Riddle and Newbold were all staring at the dead crow. Suddenly, Riddle felt very cold.

  With an effort, Riddle tore his gaze from the crow and Samantha Thompson’s exposed chest and lowered it until he was looking at her bloodied feet. At first, he had assumed the wounds on her feet had perhaps been the result of being made to walk barefooted. Only now did he now give them his full attention.

  “What the hell?” he said.

  Powell took a few steps and knelt down. “It would appear,” he said slowly, “that someone has carved a cross into the soles of both her feet.”

  Riddle moved in closer. “It looks,” he said as he moved his head to one side, “it looks like a crucifix, only it’s the wrong way around.”

  Powell stood up slowly. The wind had suddenly dropped and the tent was almost completely silent. “Or,” he said in what was an unusually hushed tone, “it’s not the wrong way round. It’s inverted.”

  “What’s the difference?” Newbold said.

  “Oh, Christ.” Riddle said, realisation suddenly flooding through him like ice water. “It’s an inverted cross. And the crow…” he left the sentence unfinished.

  “I fear you may be right,” Powell said.

  *

  As Riddle was beginning to understand the significance of the murder scene, DCI Miller was sitting on the sergeant’s sofa, trying not to be too upset by the paucity of books and records in the Riddle household.

  “Here you are,” Maria Riddle said, holding out a mug emblazoned with the logo of Whitby Town Football Club.

  Miller thanked her and took an exploratory sip of coffee. It was surprisingly good, certainly a significant improvement on the coffee Riddle made for him.

  “Thanks for agreeing to see me,” Miller began and then immediately regretted it.

  “For God’s sake, Frank. How long have we known one another?”

  “I know,” Miller said quickly. “I’m sorry. It’s force of habit. That and…”

  “And?” Maria asked, the anger gone as quickly as it had come. She sat down besides Miller. “And what?”

  “And it feels wrong using you to find more out about Samantha. I know you were a friend of hers.”

  “Isn’t that what you and Paul do?” she asked, her question bereft of any accusation.

  Miller shrugged his shoulders. He suddenly felt very tired. “I suppose we do. We question people close to a murder victim so we can take a step closer to catching the killer. I suppose we don’t stop as often as we should to consider what they’re going through.”

  Maria smiled. “You’re a good man, Frank,” she said placing her hand on his knee. “Paul thinks so too, but I doubt he’ll ever tell you that.”

  Miller put his hand on top
of Maria’s and smiled. “Thank you,” he said.

  Maria bent forward and kissed him on the cheek, before standing up and sitting down in the chair opposite. “Right, enough of this touchy feely nonsense,” she said with a warm smile. “We both need to get our stuff together if you’re going to find out what happened to Samantha. So what do you want to know?”

  Not for the first time, Miller marvelled at Maria Riddle. She had intelligence, along with an ability to always know the right thing to say or do. He hoped DS Riddle knew how lucky he was.

  “It’s early days,” he said taking another sip of his coffee before placing it on the IKEA table next to the sofa. “So anything you can tell me about the victim – sorry – about Samantha will help. Background, career, love life… anything at all.” He knew it sounded hopelessly weak and vague, but the truth was he knew almost nothing about Samantha Thompson.

  “Sure,” Maria said, curling her legs under herself. “Where do you want me to start?”

  Chapter 5

  “Why don’t you tell me about what Samantha Thompson did for a living?” Miller asked.

  “She’s a surveyor,” Maria said. “She works – worked – for Anstey Ltd in the town centre.”

  Miller wished Riddle was there to take his invariably accurate notes. But even he had to concede that it would have been somewhat inappropriate for Riddle to be interviewing his own wife. Not that Miller doing it was that much more conventional.

  “So she was a qualified surveyor?” he asked, as his mind went back to the previous evening in the Endeavour pub. She had seemed more of a free spirit than a surveyor, but then he had to admit that he knew little about surveying and any assumption he had of the character of their profession was more of a lazy stereotype than the product of any direct experience.