by Carol Wyer
‘I only spoke to Forensics. You need to talk to DI Terry Robinson about it. He’s expecting your call.’
Morgan handed Kate a piece of paper.
‘Gwen is giving a statement in interview room D,’ said Kate. ‘Can one of you collect it when she’s done? It accounts for her movements on Thursday morning.’
‘I need to go to the men’s room. I’ll pick it up on my way back,’ said Morgan, and headed out of the office.
Kate punched out the number on the paper and then grabbed a pen to make notes. DI Terry Robinson sounded flustered and overworked, and even though he was expecting her to ring him, it took several minutes for him to locate the correct paperwork and give Kate the information she required.
He read out the statement in a pedestrian fashion, pausing heavily at the end of every sentence. ‘A call came in at eight thirty on Friday the fourth of June, from Mr Ian Wentworth of Raven Cottage, Ashbourne. He’d gone home to find his house had been broken into and was afraid the intruder or intruders were still on the premises. Officers were immediately dispatched to the premises but, on their arrival, there was no sign of any trespassers. Mr Wentworth said nothing of value seemed to have been stolen but a jar containing an eye had been left behind on a desk in his study. He instructed the officers to remove the container but did not wish Forensics to attend the scene, nor for any further action be taken.’
‘Didn’t he want to know who had left the jar?’
‘No. The officers mentioned he appeared jumpy, which was understandable, given the circumstances, and asked them to take the jar away immediately. Believing it to be some practical joke, they brought it back to the station, where it was duly dispatched to the forensic laboratory at Derby University for closer examination. I’m afraid there was a problem regarding weekend cover and it got overlooked.’
‘Yes, so I hear. It could have helped us hugely if we’d known about this sooner.’
‘Obviously, but as I said, it was one of those unfortunate things.’
Kate bit back more angry words. They would serve no purpose other than to alienate a fellow officer in the next county. ‘Do you know anything about Ian Wentworth?’
‘We’re short-staffed here at the moment. I only received this information a short while ago and as soon as we’d established the identity of the eye, I contacted you, so I haven’t had a chance to look into his background. I believe he’s an ENT surgeon, but that’s as far as my knowledge stretches.’
‘Does he have any connection to Alex Corby?’
‘Again, I haven’t had any opportunities to establish if he has.’
‘How long has Mr Wentworth lived at Raven Cottage?’
‘I don’t seem to have that information to hand. I can tell you it’s his holiday cottage. His primary residence is on your patch, which is why I alerted you as soon as I could.’ There was further rustling of papers as he searched for the address. ‘Here it is. Festival House, Lichfield.’
‘Have you got a telephone number for him?’
He read it out for her. ‘I hope he can help you with your investigation. Have you any further questions?’
‘No, thank you. We’ll look into it.’
‘If anything else comes to light, I’ll let you know.’
Suddenly, they had several directions and leads. Kate gave Emma the news. ‘Alex’s eye turned up at a holiday cottage belonging to Ian Wentworth, a Lichfield resident.’
Emma raised a balled fist, punching the air. ‘A new lead. Do you want me to track him down?’
‘No. I’d like you to talk to Sierra Monroe again. Gwen believes her husband is having an affair with one of his pupils, and since he taught Sierra from ten until eleven and we can’t establish his whereabouts for the ensuing hour, she’s the most likely candidate.’
‘He’s having an affair?’ Emma’s face scrunched up in surprise.
Kate fiddled with her pen, clicking the top several times as she tried to make sense of the eye turning up in a jar.
‘You think Bradley is having an affair with a twenty-year-old?’ Emma repeated, dragging Kate away from her thoughts
Kate put down the pen. ‘It doesn’t matter what we think – we have to investigate Gwen’s claim. Start with Sierra, then speak to all his other pupils.’
Emma pulled a face. ‘I can’t believe he’d be shagging a girl younger than his own daughter.’
‘Just follow it up, Emma. If nothing else, it might clear him from the investigation,’ said Kate.
Morgan turned up at that moment. ‘Clear who?’ he asked, placing Gwen’s statement on Kate’s desk.
‘Clear whom?’ said Emma. ‘It’s whom, not who.’
‘What?’
‘Never mind,’ she replied with a wry grin. ‘Bradley might have an alibi for Thursday.’ She scooted across to her desk and tapped at the keyboard.
Kate turned her attention to Morgan. ‘Find out what you can about an ear, nose and throat specialist, Ian Wentworth. He lives in Festival House, Lichfield. There must be some reason he received Alex’s eye.’
Morgan logged on to the general database and said, ‘He has a website.’ He twisted his screen around so Kate could see the unsmiling portrait of a large-nosed man who looked to be in his fifties, with jet-black hair. There was something familiar about his face, as if she knew him, yet she’d never heard of him before today.
‘You read through the information on the website and I’ll root around on the general database.’
Ian had attended school in Sutton Coldfield and from there had gone to London University to study medicine. Alex hadn’t gone to either educational establishment. If Ian had known Alex, it wasn’t through studying together, so maybe they’d met socially or Alex had been one of his patients. Kate was certain Chris would have another theory. He’d undoubtedly bet there was a connection between Wentworth and Dickson.
Emma gave a small cough. ‘I’ve found out something interesting. Sierra’s father, Cooper Monroe, is also an ex-SAS member who not only happens to work part time as a security guard at Corby International’s warehouses but was in the same squadron as Bradley Chapman. Do you still want me to question Sierra?’
Kate pondered the question. There was no reason not to speak to the girl. The fact that her father and Bradley served together in the forces didn’t negate the possibility she was having an affair. ‘Yes, stick to the plan, and Morgan, you tackle Cooper. Establish his movements for Thursday. I’ll speak to the surgeon.’
With both officers deployed, Kate rang Ian, only to listen to a recorded message informing her he was unable to take her call. She left a message for him to call her back.
No sooner had she hung up than William rested a hand against the door frame and peered in. ‘Hi, Kate. Superintendent Dickson has been asking me how you’re getting on. It’s been three days and he’d like an update.’
‘As you said, it’s been three days,’ she replied.
‘How far along are you?’
This wasn’t like him. He was always more approachable than this, and was a cajoler, not a pusher.
‘William, that’s like asking about the length of a piece of string. What’s up?’
‘Nothing, merely trying to establish where you are in the investigation. Last time we spoke you were looking into Lisa Handsworth and Bradley Chapman. Any updates?’
‘Lisa looks like a dead end and we’re still working on Bradley’s whereabouts,’ she replied.
‘Any other suspects?’
‘We’ve been looking into Rory Winters and Fiona Corby. It appears they’ve been having an affair.’
‘Any cracks in their alibis?’
‘None so far. Gwen Chapman was at Alex’s house the day he died, but I don’t believe she killed him.’
‘Believe? What about facts, Kate?’
‘She wasn’t there long enough to murder Alex, and as soon as she’d finished her conversation with him she went to the butcher’s in Uttoxeter.’
‘And you’ve checked out thi
s story, have you?’
‘Not yet.’
His eyes locked on to hers, point made.
‘She didn’t kill him.’
‘I’m sure you’ll detail all that in your report. Make sure you let me know as soon as you find out anything new.’ He patted the door frame and vanished, leaving her feeling slightly perplexed. Why had he been so sharp with her? His behaviour had seemed out of character recently. Because of that, along with an increasing suspicion that both he and Dickson were out to topple her, she’d held back about Ian Wentworth. She wanted to keep it under wraps until she could speak to the man. She couldn’t trust William, and with that realisation came a rising sense of panic. She had to get out of the station and away from everyone.
She snatched up her bag and car keys and clattered down the back staircase and into the car park, where she inhaled deeply. The scene was shifting again, the car park transforming into a station platform, the line of parked cars morphing into a ten-carriage silver train. No! Not now. She made it to the Audi, avoiding the stares of pleading faces – the faces of ghosts she couldn’t help. She slid into the driving seat and pressed out a single white pill from the foil pack in her bag and dry-swallowed it, resting against the cool headrest until the present returned and the past was banished once more.
Once she felt able, she started up the engine, keen to escape. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of the man who’d stopped her the night before – the journalist – and floored the accelerator pedal. He raised a hand in her direction, but she ignored him and hurtled out of the car park, putting distance between them both as quickly as possible.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
SUNDAY, 6 JUNE – AFTERNOON
Festival House, named after the gardens opposite Lichfield’s famous clock tower, overlooked one of the many expanses of green especially created for city-dwelling individuals within the estate. Although still considered to be one of the smallest English cathedral cities, Lichfield had grown over time to a population of approximately 104,000, and an entire estate of several thousand people lived on land where once a hospital had stood. Kate pulled into the general car park and made the short distance to the block where Ian lived on foot.
The entire area had been, Kate mused, tastefully designed. It was verdant and neatly maintained, with tidy hedgerows and clipped green lawns: a haven of pedestrianised tranquillity. Two swans swam gracefully on the pond adjacent to Festival House, approaching her as she neared them, in the hope of being fed.
Festival House resembled a three-storey mews complex rather than a block of flats. The façade was cream-coloured with fake arches that disguised the three separate entrances, giving the impression each led into one individual house. She found the bell for the penthouse next to the middle door, and rang it. No one responded. She took a pace back and looked up at the top floor but could see nothing of the apartment as it was set back slightly and concealed by a concrete balustrade.
‘You looking for somebody?’
The voice surprised her. It had come from a woman wheeling a buggy in which sat a contented chubby baby chewing on a plastic ring.
‘I was hoping to catch Ian Wentworth. He appears to be out.’
‘His car’s here. I just parked next to it. He might have walked into town, though. It’s easier than trying to find a space to park.’
‘Do you live in this block?’
‘Bottom floor. Ian’s on the top.’
‘I don’t suppose you can let me in so I can knock on his door?’ Kate showed her ID.
The woman pulled a face. ‘He done anything wrong?’
‘Just want to ask him some questions about a break-in.’
‘What, here?’
‘No. In Derbyshire.’
The woman let out a sigh of relief. ‘Thank goodness. Not being funny or anything, but I’ve been a bit edgy today. I went into the kitchen in the early hours to fetch the baby’s milk, and I was sure there was somebody hanging about over there in the alleyway. My husband went outside to check but didn’t see anyone.’
‘Can you describe the person?’
‘No. It was too dark to see anything other than vague shapes and movement.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Two in the morning. You don’t think they were casing the place, intending to break in, do you?’
‘It might have been a drunk or somebody on their way home who stopped for a piss. I wouldn’t worry about it. As I said, this isn’t about a break-in here.’
‘Yes, I guess you’re right. I’ve been overtired recently, what with this little one getting me up at all hours.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Hayley. Hayley King.’
‘Well, Hayley, if you see anyone lurking about in the early hours again, let the police know.’
‘I shall.’
‘Could you let me into the block?’
‘Yes, sure.’ Hayley pulled a key out of her pocket and slotted it into the lock. The door swung back to reveal a tiled hallway and a metal staircase. ‘My apartment’s here,’ she said, pointing to the left.
Kate held the door open while Hayley dragged the pram inside, then climbed the stairs to the top landing and stood in front of a white door that was partly open.
She shouted, ‘Mr Wentworth?’
There was no sound.
‘Mr Wentworth, it’s the police. I’m coming in,’ she called.
When there was no answer, she extracted a pair of disposable gloves from her jacket pocket and pulled them on. She pushed the door open and stepped inside, senses alert in case an intruder was on the premises. The smell, akin to rotting fruit, hit her olfactory senses immediately, causing her to catch her breath and pause. She recognised the first whiffs of a decomposing body. The apartment was a vast open-plan space of entrance room, dining and kitchen area and sitting room all in one. Her gaze fell to the far end, where a grand piano was standing in front of white floating stairs, then was drawn to the chair in front of the bookcases. She approached with caution, each step drawing her closer to the grisly scene.
A man was resting in the chair, mouth wide open. She’d already known what to expect. The open door had prepared her and the splashes of crimson on the cream carpet beneath the La-Z-Boy hinted at it. His right eye had been plucked from its socket. The crime scene had to be preserved but she needed to check for signs of life – for her own peace of mind – and was sideswiped by a vision so vivid it froze her to the spot . . .
An elderly man’s body has fallen into the aisle; his torso is blocking her path. The gunman is unaware of her presence. She raises a foot, clambers over the man without looking at his face, and clears his body.
Pop!
A blonde-haired woman is lying face down on the table, her friend hunched over in the corner, crimson stains on the headrest.
Pop!
Kate can’t breathe. The smell of death is everywhere.
She takes another step. Ever closer to the assailant.
Then she catches sight of a child’s shoe.
Kate’s fingers trembled as they searched in vain for a pulse from the carotid artery. Ian had been dead for hours. The plate on the coffee table beside his body contained eleven microscopic pieces of chopped fruit. The remainder of the apple stood next to them. Ian hadn’t made it to the thirteenth piece. He’d choked far sooner.
She rang Ervin, told him to meet her at the apartment straight away, and then called DCI William Chase.
‘William, the killer’s struck again.’
‘Where are you?’
‘The penthouse at Festival House in Lichfield. It belongs to Ian Wentworth.’
‘Is he the victim?’
‘Yes.’
She imagined she could hear him sucking in breath.
‘Do you know him?’ she asked.
His response was quick. A little too quick. ‘No. Have you notified Forensics?’
‘I rang Ervin before I called you.’
‘Good. Okay. W
e’ll need to keep a lid on this. Contain the scene and I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.’
As she studied the ruined face in front of her, she couldn’t set aside the feeling she knew the man, or had seen him somewhere before – just as she’d thought when she’d seen his portrait photograph on his website.
There was little time to consider it further. She had a duty to perform: secure and record the scene and ensure it remained uncontaminated before Forensics and the pathologist arrived.
First, however, she rang Morgan, whose voice kept breaking up. ‘Hi, Kate. I’m on . . . way back. I can’t . . . locate Cooper . . . house . . . Sierra doesn’t have a clue where he might be.’
‘Okay. Leave him for the moment. We’ve got another victim and I need you and Emma to join me in Lichfield as soon as possible.’
‘I’ll tell Emma. Where are you?’
Once she’d given details to Morgan, she hastened downstairs, knocking at doors to ask the occupants to vacate the building. No one was at home. Even Hayley King didn’t answer her door.
Kate wondered if the woman had actually seen somebody in the shadows in the early hours of the morning – if so, that person might have been the killer. She stepped outside, ensuring the front door was left open, and stood in front of the building to keep folk away until an official cordon had been put in place. There wasn’t a soul in sight. A plane rumbled overhead, a departure from Birmingham airport, and she watched it travel across the azure sky. She checked her phone for new messages and Chris’s voice made her look up in surprise.
‘Kate.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Making sure you’re okay. You look troubled.’
‘I am a little. It’s William.’
‘What about him?’
‘He recognised the victim’s name, Ian Wentworth. I could hear it in his voice. He was . . . guarded. I needed to find out if Ian knew Alex . . . and Dickson. And now I can’t ask him. It’s . . . frustrating.’
‘But maybe convenient for somebody else – the killer. Ian can’t tell you what you need to know. You’ll have to get the info some other way.’
