“Now, tell me everything about yesterday. Why are you worried?”
“Jonathan, my husband, works in Birmingham. He’s a chartered accountant, and he commutes from our home every day. We live north of Shrewsbury, and there’s a train station about half a mile from us. He likes to walk there in the morning, says it’s his exercise for the day before sitting behind a desk cranking a calculator. Yesterday was like any other. He left for work, told me to get the hotel booked for our five-year anniversary getaway; that’s next month. He called me again when he got to work, as usual, and then he called me again at five when he was on his way home. The only unusual thing was that he was stopping in Telford on the way home. I thought he was getting a surprise for me, he does that all the time. Flowers or something.”
Monique blushed slightly at that, the ‘something’ being a more intimate gift, Diane assumed.
“I waited for his call to come and pick him up from the station at home, but it never came.” A shimmer of light along the lower edge of Monique’s eyes threatened that more tears were forming.
“What happened when you called his phone?”
“At first, it rang and then went to voicemail. I must have left him a hundred messages. Now, there’s no ring, just voicemail, as if his phone battery has run out.”
“And you didn’t get the indication he was screening your calls?”
“No, I called from a payphone at the station and got the same response.”
Diane nodded. She is a smart girl, this one, thought Diane.
“And no calls from strange numbers?”
“None, just my parents, and an inspector over in Shrewsbury telling me there was nothing he could do either. I’ve reached out to Birmingham too, but they all tell me the same thing. I’m not sure where to go next, Mrs. Dimbleby. You’re pretty much my last lead.”
Diane sat back and reached for her tea, looking at the curtains behind Monique’s head. Ideas were beginning to form, possible scenarios, avenues of inquiry that might bear some fruit. She hummed softly as Monique watched her take a sip of tea.
“We definitely need more information before we can do much else,” said Diane brusquely. “I will see what I can do for you, my dear, but do not bet all your chips on me. Inspector Crothers is very good at his job, and when he can, I’m sure he will get right to the bottom of this. Until then, there’s not much else you can do, I think.”
Monique’s face had held a look of optimism and hope until Diane had started talking. It quickly changed to exasperation, and she buried her face in her hands.
“What good are the police right now?” came her muffled response. “Right now my Jonathan could be dead, and no-one cares.”
Chapter 2
“You should go home, Monique,” said Diane softly. She had leaned forward in her chair and placed a comforting hand upon the woman’s knee. “There could be an entirely innocent explanation for all of this. I know you might not think so, but you should be at home in case he tries to contact you there.”
“Why wouldn’t he call my mobile? We only have a house phone for the internet connection we get with it. I don’t even think he knows the number.” Monique’s tone was almost pleading but feebly so, as if she had given up hope of convincing Diane.
“Go home and wait for Jonathan. He could have a perfectly rational explanation for all of this. He may even be waiting there for you right now.” Diane rose from her seat and moved towards the door. “Call me if you hear anything at all. Any time.”
Reluctantly, Monique stood, straightening her clothes as she did. She looked at Diane, a final plea in her eyes, the dark stains around them making them seem hollow, distant, lost. Diane again placed a hand upon her shoulder, a firm pressure to partly reassure and partly to guide towards the door.
“If I don’t hear from you, I’ll call Inspector Crothers in the morning and see what he plans to do.” With a wink, Diane said, “I have a knack for lighting a fire under him.”
“Thank you for trying to help me,” said Monique resignedly. “There’s nothing more I can do, is there?”
Diane shook her head.
“You need to keep your chin up and eyes and ears open. You never know what may come and probably sooner than you think.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Monique as she opened the front door. “You’re so kind to have seen me.”
Diane and Monique exchanged parting pleasantries and Monique left along the pathway, head still slumped forward, but her stride was steadier than when she had arrived.
“Poor girl,” said Albert over Diane’s shoulder. “She’s having a rough time.”
Diane nodded slowly as the top of Monique’s head disappeared behind a neighbour’s garden hedge.
“She seems certain it’s foul play. If he turns up in Paris with another woman, I’m not sure what she will do.”
“A woman scorned, eh.”
“Exactly.” Turning back into the house and closing the door, Diane returned to the living room with Albert trudging behind. “There are just so many possibilities right now. If I’m to help her, I need more information.”
“So you’re going to help? I thought you think he’s done a runner on her?”
“Either way,” said Diane over her shoulder, “she’s in distress, and I can’t leave her like that. It wouldn’t be right.”
“A female detective code thing, eh,” Albert said sagely, but with a small smile that Diane knew as playfulness.
“Exactly. We women have to work together against you misguided men.” She turned and punched Albert lightly in the chest.
“Someone needs to watch over us,” agreed Albert with a grin. “We’re not equipped with the most effective thinking apparatus.”
Diane punched him slightly harder and returned his smile.
“Well, let me guide you back to the dishes.”
Albert chuckled as he made for the kitchen. “Another cuppa?”
Diane just shook her head as she lowered herself into her computer chair. Her mind was already elsewhere as she tapped the spacebar and the screen flicked into life. She adjusted her glasses, using a small cloth to clean dust from the front of a lens, the specks glowing brightly in the light of the computer screen. They were a distraction that she did not need.
“Let’s see who you are, Jonathan Carstairs.”
Diane’s fingers flitted with practiced ease over the keyboard and in short order had arrived at the Birmingham-based firm that Jonathan worked for. Some deft mouse clicks had her looking at a company description, and then on to an employee page.
FDN–Birmingham, Chartered Accountants was a fairly small company from comparison with other chartered accountants in the city. They had only one office in a renovated warehouse about five minutes’ walk from New Street station, even though their name suggested aspirations of a multi-city future. Other tenants of the building were small finance firms and a cleaning supply company, along with what seemed to be, based upon their name, a couple of tech startups.
The employee page also implied a drive for expansion as the bottom of the page still housed an Under Construction image with stick figure workers digging and pushing wheelbarrows full of ones and zeroes. Jonathan Carstairs was listed second on the page beneath a stern bubble-faced man with a receding hairline who specialized in company audits.
Jonathan appeared to be one of the younger members of the company and had a personal profile page that was more extensive than most others. He was the head of the liquidation department and had accepted the position five years ago, bounced up from a more minor position in the department.
Opening a second browser window, Diane ran a search on the duties and requirements of a liquidator. After several false starts with well-disguised advertisement pages, she came across an encyclopaedia-type page that very quickly became extremely technical. However, the first paragraph was clear enough for her to realize that a liquidator was involved in the aftermath of a failing company. Their task was to take control of the
company and steer it along one of several paths, though usually either back to profitability or selling the company on. This immediately piqued Diane’s interest, as she knew from her own past leadership roles that stepping into someone else’s shoes who may have been forcibly removed from a position could lead to some heated emotions. While death threats had never come her way, there had been unsavoury language and malicious rumours spread about her several times.
Jonathan had been in charge of the liquidation of quite a few smaller local businesses, nothing national or international. In the last year, he had overseen the restructuring of a textile firm who were back in profitability for the first time in several years due to his intervention. The company had been sold to an Indian conglomerate; Jonathan’s intervention had saved jobs in Birmingham, though top management had been replaced quite aggressively. Before that, a small auto manufacturer had passed into Jonathan’s hands and seemed to have disappeared after a sale to an investment group. Some comments on the message boards suggested that a severe dismantling had taken place very quickly with assets sold off within a year of purchase.
Diane did not see any particular pattern in his activities that showed he was malicious in his work. However, she realized that even in his apparent successes, Jonathan would have made enemies, people that had not prospered under his guardianship. If something had happened to him, the list of potential suspects would be more than one woman, energetic as she was, could possibly scour through. Only Inspector Crothers and his Shrewsbury and West Midlands counterparts would have the resources to touch on every lead. Diane would be a distant partner in such a group if they even allowed her any information.
Her pencil hand began to ache as she scribbled company and upper management names on her small notepad. A stack of identical notebooks lined a squat bookcase on her right with handwritten titles along the spine, such as ‘Poison List’ and ‘Exotic Rituals.' While competent in using a computer, Diane still preferred to write her research notes on paper. The tactile sensation reinforced the information in her mind, and she could easily recall when and where she had added a titbit of knowledge to the collection.
Within the bookcase was a grouping of seven notebooks placed separately from the rest. These had dates along the spine and were Diane’s notes on actual cases that she had been involved in, dating back to the death of her husband and her involvement in apprehending his killers.
Diane finished her search on Jonathan Carstairs as Albert scuffled back into the room and flopped himself into an armchair. He shook open the magazine that had come with the Sunday paper and noisily browsed through descriptions of seasonal fashion and travel hotspots. He stared at a photograph of a range of mountains that reflected in lake waters with a clean blue sky above. As Diane flipped the notebook and inscribed the date in bold numbers, Albert waved the picture in her direction.
“What do you think?”
Diane glanced up briefly before returning to her writing.
“About?”
“A holiday. To this place.” He pulled the paper back and moved it around in front of his face, squinting increasingly harder as he looked at a caption in a small font. “Austria.” There was a small note of triumph in his voice at being able to read the location.
“Austria?” said Diane, looking up from her work again. “What’s brought this on? The closest you’ve ever gotten to the continent is Dover.”
“I’ve eaten French bread,” replied Albert, his face showing mock insult. “I just feel like we need some adventure, explore the world.”
“Adventure? Explore the world? Who are you and what have you done with Albert?” Diane stood up from her chair and brandished the pen in a threatening manner. “I’ll have no pod people in my house.”
“I may have opposed foreign holidays in the past,” admitted Albert, his hands raised in a defensive gesture. “I admit it. But, and maybe it’s the dampness from my slippers, I think my feet are getting an itch.”
“You can get a powder for that from the pharmacist.”
“Wanderlust!” exclaimed Albert. “You see, fluent in German already. It’s a sign!”
Diane shook her head, a feigned show of despair for her poor Albert.
“Pod person!” retorted Diane. “Out with you!” She menacingly jabbed the pen in Albert’s direction.
“Come… join us, human. I mean Diane.” Albert had opened his arms in a Frankenstein-ian embrace. “Come, Earthling… err Diane.”
“Back to your veggie patch,” said Diane while advancing with fencing thrusts of the pen.
Albert reached for Diane who deteriorated into laughter and dropped the pen on the carpet.
“I am lost,” she chuckled as Albert embraced her, making biting noises towards her neck.
Diane’s phone pierced the frivolity like a pin into a balloon, its ring sounding overly loud, rattling teeth and nerves with its insistence. Albert froze while Diane’s laughter stopped in her throat. A second call on a Sunday morning was unheard of. There was an unspoken rule that said no calls should be made before noon on a Sunday out of respect for peace and sanity. That this was the second call immediately gave the sensation of alarm, cracking the serenity of the Apple Mews phone prohibition.
Extracting herself from a deflated Albert, his arms hanging limply across her shoulders, Diane stepped up to the computer table and answered the phone, restoring a modicum of peace to the air.
“Hello?” Diane had not recognized the number.
“Miss Dimbleby, oh my god, what do I do?” The voice was shrill and edged with panic. “What do I do?”
“Monique?” said Diane. “What is it, what has happened?”
The breathing on the other end of the line was rapid, too quick for words to form between breaths. Diane paused, giving Monique a little time to get herself under control.
“Are you alright? Is it Jonathan?” Diane’s questions were short and sharp, Monique’s agitation transferring to Diane.
“Someone - someone broke into my house.” Monique did not so much say the word ‘house’ as wail it into the phone.
“Who did?” asked Diane. “Are you safe?”
“I don’t know, but there’s no-one here now.” Slowly Monique was gathering her senses again, though Diane could still hear the closeness of hysteria in her responses.
“Go to a neighbour,” advised Diane, “Call the police.”
“I… I…“
“Go to your neighbours,” insisted Diane.
“I can’t,” blurted Monique. “I… I think it might have been one of them.”
“What? Why?”
“I thought they liked me,” continued Monique, bypassing Diane’s questions. “But now…” Her voice trailed off, leaving the sentence for Diane to hang on.
“Monique,” said Diane firmly, “you need to tell me what is going on. What makes you think your neighbours broke into your house?”
“I can’t explain it. It just… there’s…“
Monique went quiet as if thinking about how to describe what had happened to her home. Diane’s phone beeped a tune that told her a text message had arrived.
“See, I sent it to you,” said Monique. “Don’t you see.” Her voice was becoming strained again.
“Get in your car and drive to me,” said Diane. “We have to get you to safety if your neighbours are involved.”
“Yes. Yes. I’m on my way.”
As Monique hung up the phone, Diane heard a door slam and heels clicking rapidly.
Albert leaned over Diane’s shoulder and said:
“Is she okay?”
“I think there’s something very not okay going on and she’s gotten caught up in it. She’s on her way here. Would you go and check the spare bedroom? I have a feeling she will need a place to stay for a little while.”
“Of course,” said Albert as he turned to leave the room. Stopping, he added, “You’re going to help her, aren’t you?”
Albert did not expect a response as he continued out of
the room. He was not even certain why he had asked the question, or even if it was a question and not a statement. This was what Diane did for anyone that needed her. His job now was to take care of everything else while Diane applied herself to the situation. This was what he did, and he enjoyed it.
Diane flicked her fingers over the phone screen, pulling up a message from Monique’s number. An image was attached, and Diane looked at a thumbnail while the image loaded. All she could make out was a living room that seemed to be badly arranged.
As her phone screen filled with the image, Diane gasped. Not only was the furniture out of place and upended, but it had also been slashed in multiple areas, the stuffing pulled out by the handful and scattered liberally around the room. Red paint streaks covered the sofa, the walls, and the windows. It looked as if a savage killing had taken place there but without the body. In the centre of the main window, in two-foot jagged letters, daubed in the same red paint, was the word, “TRAITOR!”
After some time of staring at the image, taking in the anger and passion that showed in it, Diane began expanding the picture on different areas and reached for her notebook again. There was no clear sign of the weapon or the paint can. Paintings knocked from the walls, stood propped against them beneath areas streaked with paint. A side table had been tipped over and a golden statue that was the base of a lamp lay on the floor beside it, the lampshade crushed by a stamping foot. Next to the shade was a wedding photograph with a web of cracks spreading out across the glass in the frame, another stamp that seemed very purposeful. Even the carpet had seen the lash of a brush and splashes went off in all directions.
Diane focused on the single word, as descriptive with its surroundings as a paragraph of text. There was hate here. Who was the traitor? Was it Monique? It seemed more likely to Diane that, following Jonathan’s disappearance, it pointed more clearly in his direction. Someone saw Jonathan as a traitor, but to what or who? There was an excess of possible work-related options, though breaking into the home seemed an odd choice, especially if they had been the reason for Jonathan’s vanishing act. She knew only Monique could shine a light on it and why this gave her the impression her neighbours were involved.
Murder in the Development Page 2
