Scream Blue Murder

by Linda Coles

  “And why is that?” asked Dupin.

  Amanda filled him in on the details: the empty hole at the funeral and everything else they knew that suggested that somehow the body had miraculously found its own way into the ground.

  Dupin sat back in his chair with his head back and said, “I see your point. It's almost unbelievable that either Simpson or his wife or both of them were involved, but we have to believe it because Taylor’s body didn't just appear there by magic. And you're right: his body was put there when Mr and Mrs Simpson lived in the house, so it would be too far-fetched for somebody else to go in and dig a hole, dump a body and cover it back over and neither of the Simpsons be aware of it. I gather they were both in the country when this happened?”

  “Yes, sir. We questioned Madeline Simpson for some time when the landscaper went missing, but we got nowhere. We also questioned Gordon, but he was at work, and since no body had been found at the time, Taylor was listed as a missing person.”

  Dupin checked the time on his watch and said, “I need to be somewhere just now, but organise Mr Simpson for late on this afternoon. He’ll want his solicitor, no doubt. I will see what we can shake loose.”

  “Yes, sir. I'll check in with Raj.” She stood to leave.

  “And Amanda?” he asked. “What do you think about Gordon Simpson’s involvement?”

  “Personally, sir, I can't see how he'd have any involvement. I know him well. He really is a timid kind of individual, a real gentleman, and it just doesn't fit with what I know of him. But I couldn't be so sure about Madeline Simpson. I didn't know her; she died before I met her officially as Ruth’s stepmother. I’d had an interest in her at the time of Mr Taylor's disappearance, but again, nothing ever came of it, no evidence of anything. And then she had her accident and was killed. So, to answer your question in a roundabout way, no, I don't believe Gordon Simpson is guilty, but I have no other explanation.”

  “Let's see what the questioning throws up, then, see what his alibi is. Now that we have a time period to work with since Taylor was last seen alive, it might be wide but it’s something.” He stood to dismiss Amanda and get on his way to wherever he was headed. “It’s the right call, Amanda, for you not to be involved in the interview. We need somebody who’s going to be impartial, and you're clearly not.”

  Amanda knew that he wasn't being harsh; this was simply the reality of the situation, and she was happy that somebody else was taking the task off her hands.

  “I'll be back later,” Dupin said. “Keep me posted.”

  Amanda walked back to her office, but just before she turned back into the squad room, she checked back over her shoulder to see Dupin heading out towards the car park. She wondered where he was going, but she’d got enough to think about without adding trivia. He was probably going for his lunch—she needed the same.

  She decided to try Ruth again. She still wasn't picking up her phone, so Amanda tried her office directly. Her PA answered.

  “I'm afraid she's not here,” the woman said.

  “Any idea where she might be? She's not picking up her mobile.”

  “I'm sorry, no. She didn't say. She left about half an hour ago. She's probably just gone for lunch.”

  “Okay. Please tell her I called, that I was worried.”

  “I will,” the woman said, and Amanda ended the call. If Ruth had only been gone half an hour, at least she was okay, but why hadn't she returned her earlier calls?

  You know the answer to that, Amanda, she said to herself out loud.

  She is avoiding you. She blames you already.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Ruth had hardly done any work. She sat staring at the screen in front of her, her mind elsewhere. All she had done all morning was drink coffee and distract herself from what was really going on in her head. A body had been found at her parents’ old place and her father had been questioned. Gordon wouldn't hurt a fly; he wasn't that kind of guy. But her stepmother Madeline? Now she'd been something else. And two years ago, on a warm summer's day as they’d lain together on sun loungers on the patio, Madeline had confided in her after Ruth had pieced together some rather strange events that had gone on and linked them all back to Madeline. You couldn't make up what she had done—a series of pranks that had gone horribly wrong and resulted in several people losing their lives.

  And Ruth knew that Des Taylor had been one of them, had always known.

  Her head felt like it was full of bees. She rested her elbows on the glass desk and closed her eyes.

  The clock on her computer said it was almost 1 o'clock, and since she was doing nothing productive at work, she grabbed her bag and informed her PA that she was going out for a while.

  Green Park was bustling with folks out seeking their lunches. Ruth didn't feel much like eating, but she did feel like a drink. And a long one. She walked into the first bar that she came across and ordered a cold white wine. The barman, sensing she was in no mood for conversation, didn't even try; he delivered the glass with a knowing smile, looking up at her from under hooded lids, and set it down in front of her. She took a long mouthful and then another, draining half the glass down. The cold liquid shot straight to her empty stomach, but it felt good as it went. The barman had since moved on to serve somebody else, but she could see that he was keeping an eye on her. Ruth picked up the glass and downed the rest of it in two long gulps, and the barman again wandered over to her.

  “Can I get you another?” he enquired.

  Ruth still hadn't looked up at him. She couldn't have described him to anybody, had no idea what he looked like.

  He tried again. “Another?”

  This time she did look up, and her gaze lingered on his face for just a moment, though she wasn't entirely sure why. He wouldn't be able to solve the problem that was about to unravel, the problem that could tear her world apart.

  “Yes, please,” she said.

  “Coming right up,” he said and refilled her glass. “If I may say so,” he said mildly, “you might want to order some food with that.” He nodded at her drink. “It will make the headache less severe when you get it later.”

  Ruth just gazed at him, not entirely sure what he was saying and not entirely sure how to respond. Was he being nosy or was he simply a caring barman? Deep down, though, she knew he was right. And since she hadn't eaten anything since toast at breakfast, she could already feel the effects of the first glass on her system. And it felt great.

  “You're right,” she said. “I’ll have a sandwich, whichever type you choose.” She picked up her glass and took it across to a vacant table by the window. She knew she was probably coming across as rude, and that while that would have bothered her normally, today it didn't. Today she didn't give a toss about anybody else's feelings, only her own.

  The bar was bright and airy, and the window seat gave her a good view of the outside world bustling by—mainly navy suits and a few tourists. Idly, she wondered what Amanda was doing, how the investigation was going and what her next move was, but she hadn't the guts to ask her since she was avoiding her calls. But she knew she couldn't do so forever. They’d have to talk, and soon. She was dreading going home, and she was dreading her phone ringing again. Amanda had eventually left a message, sounding concerned, and Ruth didn't want to worry her, but until she'd sorted things out in her own head, she couldn't bear to talk to Amanda—or anybody else.

  Part of her wished that Madeline had never confided in her, though it had been Ruth that had pushed the confession, having figured things out fairly early on. A spate of silly deaths, deaths that couldn't be explained but were all linked back in various ways to her stepmother, who turned out to be suffering from a manic menopause. Ruth didn't know the details about what had happened to the landscaper, but she knew that her stepmom had been responsible for his death; Madeline had refused to tell Ruth where he'd been buried, to keep her out of it. Keep her out of trouble.

  But then Madeline had died, and on the day of her funeral, Ruth
had gazed out of the kitchen window at the big orange digger sitting idle on the far side of the garden. The hole by the side of it had looked shallow and uneven, and realisation had come quickly after that.

  Ruth grimaced at the seriousness of what she was now involved in. Both she and her father could go down for their part, however small, in one woman’s silly and selfish actions. The shit was about to fly, and her father would be caught in the crossfire. Ruth needed to keep him out of harm's way, somehow. They had no actual evidence that her father was involved, yet, but it was his garden, so unless he had an alibi… There was nobody she could ask for help or advice. Oh, what the hell was she going to do?

  A sandwich was pushed in front of her and she felt the barman hovering by her side again.

  “Can I get you anything else?” he said, his voice full of concern.

  Ruth was tempted to ask for a lawyer, but refrained. With a weak smile, she gave her thanks and he left her be. She was halfway through the first sandwich when her phone rang again— Amanda. She stared at the image of her that flashed up but didn’t answer.

  “I want to pick it up,” she whispered miserably. “I want to talk to you. I want to ask you some questions.” Her voice broke as the first of her tears slid down her cheeks.

  But how could she talk to Amanda without giving the game away?

  She let the call go to voicemail again and watched the world outside go about its business without her.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Lawrence Dupin wasn't stupid at all, despite what people thought of him. As soon as Jack had left his office, he’d put two and two together and come up with a four. If Jack had been out to the prison to see McAllister and discuss an old case, he’d also then found out about and seen Hardesty. It didn't take the brains of the Archbishop of Canterbury to put together what Jack had been working on in his own time. His own personal situation was similar to that old case, and that's where Jack had made the connection. No, Dopey he was not. Auguste Dupin, however, he could be.

  Jack Rutherford was wasted as a DC, Dupin knew. He should have been promoted to a DI long ago, but he’d never wanted to climb the ranks, was always happy to be an excellent detective solving cases rather than playing politics and doing paperwork. It was Jack's dogged detective work in deducing that the two cases were similar that was sending Dupin on his journey to a certain address now, surprisingly, one not that far away from his own. In fact, as the crow flies, it would be less than a mile on foot through nearby fields.

  He drove out of Croydon and its grey concreteness and on to Caterham, which had seen its fair share of police interest over the past week or so. He tossed thoughts around in his mind, wondered about all the possible reasons for why he was headed there at all, and kept arriving back at the same one. He had to be sure, though, and that meant seeing the whites of his eyes when the man admitted it.

  Narrow, leafy lanes came and went as he turned up to what had once been a council estate on the edge of town. Many of the residents had since bought their own places when the government had sold them cheaply years back. Others had turned their homes into flats to rent out privately, and it was one of those flats that he was headed to now. He cruised slowly down the road to the address at the end. There wasn't a house that he passed that didn't have a Sky dish on the front wall. Some homes had flowers outside and neat postage-stamp-sized lawns. Some had menacing-looking dogs chained up, pink wet tongues dangling from their mouths. It was a real mishmash of inhabitants: those who couldn't afford to live in the more salubrious part of the village and those who chose not to.

  He pulled up outside what looked like a semi-detached property but was in fact four flats. A discarded shopping trolley lay on the front pathway; it sported only three of its four wheels. Dupin checked the address even though he knew he was in the right place. He locked the car door and headed up the path. There were four buzzers, three of which had names on and one that hadn’t. It didn't matter. He needed flat 1A, which he assumed was on the ground floor. Kids’ graffiti and the smell of urine filled the porch, and Dupin wondered why at least one of the four residents hadn't bothered to clean it up. The ammonia smell burned into his nostrils. Dupin held his nose while he waited for someone to answer the door. Eventually it cracked open, held back on a security chain, and half of a face belonging to a man he recognised peered out. Even half hidden, there was no mistaking, even after all these years, the haggard face of Eddie Edwards.

  “I wondered when you'd find me. What took you so long?” Edwards said through the partially opened door. The man’s voice sounded like a work boot rubbing on gravel. Too many cheap cigarettes.

  “Let me in, then. I think it's time we talked.”

  The man stared back at him, deciding what to do. Finally, the door closed momentarily while the chain was removed. Eddie reopened it about six inches and moved away from it. Dupin touched the bottom of the door with his boot to save his fingers coming into contact and did the same on the other side to close it. He didn't want his fingers touching anything in the place unless they absolutely had to. The odour in the dark hallway wasn’t much better than the porch he’d just been stood in, though there was an added fragrance of stale curry lingering in the air. He wanted to open a window; the smell made him want to gag. He followed Eddie Edwards through to the tiny kitchen at the end and took a quick glance around, noting the squalor the man was living in. The offending smell lingering in the air was the remains of several takeaway containers still lying on the draining board. They'd been there some time; a once-red smear of tandoori was now a dull dried dark brown, looking more like blood from a crime scene. A baby cockroach wiggled its antennae at him.

  Dupin stayed standing; he wasn't going to risk his clean clothes by sitting down, and since Eddie was hovering by the back door, arms loose like he was about to flee, he got straight down to it. This wasn't a social call.

  “How have you been keeping, then, Eddie?” Dupin asked.

  “How does it look like I've been keeping?” said Eddie sarcastically. “It’s hardly palatial, is it?”

  “You could tidy up a bit,” said Dupin. But Eddie wasn't interested in his domestic advice. “Anyway,” he carried on, “did you think I wouldn't bother to find you?”

  “Oh, I thought you'd find me. I just didn't think it would take you so long.” There was a sly grin on the man’s thin lips; a cold sore in one corner looked angry and red. “So, what did take you so long to put it together?”

  “It doesn't matter. I want to know why. I want to hear it from your own lips why you set me up,” Dupin said, more calmly than he felt inside. If he could have his way, he’d have punched Eddie in the stomach by now, but it would serve no purpose, except maybe to make him feel better.

  “I took advantage of an opportunity that came my way. It wasn't planned. I was merely out for a walk, minding my own business, then lo and behold, there you were in the middle of a punch-up. And it must have been my lucky day when that young guy died. I thought I should go and buy myself a lottery ticket because you, Dupin, were so far in the shit it wasn’t funny. Well, not to you, anyway. Was for me, though. So, I did my neighbourly bit and told them who and what you are. I thought you’d be off to prison yourself.”

  “Just like the old days, eh? And someone keeping their mouth shut at another man’s expense?”

  “I couldn’t resist it; it was laid out ready for me to take, and I did.”

  Dupin wasn't surprised; he’d figured as much. But what did surprise him was Eddie's ugly attitude and the venom of his words. He would happily have let Dupin go to prison for the death of the Parker boy. Had the pathology results been different, he could well be on his way to awaiting trial—all at Eddie’s hand.

  “Well, I'm not going to prison. I didn't kill that man; it was a freak accident.”

  “It was a damn cover-up, and you know it,” screamed Eddie suddenly. His eyes blazed and spittle gathered at the corner of his mouth. “It’s all a load of bullshit.”

  Du
pin leaned in as close to the man’s face as he dared. “Like Hardesty? Was that bullshit, Eddie?”

  Eddie pulled back, a look of confusion on his face. “What made you bring that up?” he spat.

  “It was the exact same thing with Hardesty: guy gets into a simple traffic accident and ends up in prison—except he should never have gone to prison, should he, Eddie?”

  Eddie fell quiet. Dupin stumbled on. “So, tell me, how much did McAllister pay you? Or was it the foreman that got the verdict over the line for you all? Which of the two of you was playing rugby with a man’s life? Eh?”

  Eddie looked up from his boots at the mention of the foreman.

  “Yeah, I know about him, too,” Dupin said. “Well, I hope it was worth whatever you got for it, because Hardesty is still rotting in prison. I managed to save my own ass, no thanks to you. But I wanted to see your face so you knew I was on to you. And to think I’d believed your tale of woe back then! You spun me a line, and I sucked it up like the novice DI I was. But not any longer.” Dupin started for the front door; his lungs needed clean air. Eddie Edwards and the foreman had been up to their arses in it and Dupin had let it happen on his watch. He needed to figure out how to put it right.

  Eddie called after him, but his voice failed to hold any power. “Well, if that's all you've come to say, you've done it. Now get the hell out of my house.” Eddie’s attempt at kicking him out was as pathetic as the bitter man he’d allowed himself to become.

  At least Dupin now had the confirmation he needed. But could he do anything about it?

  Chapter Sixty

  Dupin's blood was boiling in his veins by the time he made it back into his car. His wheels squealed as he left the quiet avenue and the filth and squalor of Eddie Edwards behind. He felt as dirty as the man’s kitchen, if that were possible. So, it had been Eddie Edwards who’d dropped him in. But he was only confirming what he already knew deep down. And all the mess that had followed was over money and Eddie's greed years ago when he’d needed to pay off his debt. He’d got mixed up with McAllister's mob, and then everything had got out of hand.