by Linda Coles
“I've got the Kit Kat. Why don’t you make the coffee,” he called across the room to Amanda. She glanced up at him with a scowl and Jack wondered if he’d been too casual with her; she didn't seem too happy. Sensing something was off, he wandered over.
“Well, you look like you've lost a pound and found fifty pence,” he said.
“That’s about how I feel, actually,” she said glumly.
“You don't have to tell me,” he said. “I gather it’s something girly?” He put both hands up in mock surrender. He knew Amanda well enough to know when something was work related and when it wasn’t. This wasn’t. Something was definitely playing on her mind, and he wondered whether it concerned Ruth. He didn't want to pry, though, so he let it be. He knew she’d say something when she was ready.
“I figure I’ll make the coffee, then?” he said, pulling the Kit Kat out and breaking it into two.
“Okay, you win. I could do with the break,” she said, and headed into the coffee cupboard. Jack followed her, starting on his side of the Kit Kat.
“I've just seen Dupin heading out,” he said. “He wanted to stop and chat but I said I was on a mission. But I'm sure he'll catch me later.”
“I don't know why you avoid him so much. He is your DI, you know, and he's going to be the one that interviews Gordon Simpson again, because I can't. I’m family, sort of.”
“I'll do it,” said Jack.
“No offence, Jack, but I think seniority here will help. You’ve already interviewed him once plus the fact you were at my wedding, remember—so you're probably too close as it is.”
“But I'm not family.”
“That may be so, though a court would argue that, so it's better if Dupin does it, I’ll brief him later. Did he say where was going?”
“I didn't ask. Didn't hang around long enough,” Jack said.
“I'll call him in a minute. We need to get Simpson back here as soon as possible. He is the only obvious suspect in this at the moment; we have nothing or no one else to work with. Or should I say, you don’t.”
“It’s a bugger, isn’t it?” said Jack. “There’s no evidence against him apart from the fact it was his garden. But I think anybody would argue that a body found in the garden of a house that you lived in was down to one of the inhabitants of the house, and since there were only two of them, and Madeline Simpson is dead, that leaves Gordon. And I don't believe that Madeline Simpson could have done it all on her own.”
“I agree with you, Jack,” she said. “But this is going to bring a whole heap of shit down on Ruth, and that means me too. And while I can cope with it, I’m not sure Ruth can. It’s her father, after all.”
“Talking of Ruth,” Jack said. “How is she taking this so far? You said you were speaking, but only just.”
“Well, I thought we were speaking,” she said, “but I've tried her three or four times today and she hasn't picked up at all, which is really unusual. So I guess she is taking a break from me for a while. Maybe she needs some breathing space.”
“I'm sure it's only temporary measures,” said Jack. “And changing the subject slightly, I notice the protesters are still out the front. When is the second autopsy scheduled for? I thought it was today.”
“It is—it’s probably in progress as we speak,” said Amanda, looking at her watch. “So hopefully everything will be put to bed and that one will be cleared up once and for all. I suspect the only reason the family asked for a second one is to provide ammunition for a civil suit. So fingers crossed that Faye and the second pathologist agree on the results and there is no need for any further mayhem with all this.”
“Do you think she’d do me a favour?” Jack said thoughtfully. Amanda passed him his mug of coffee and he took a sip before speaking again. “Only, having seen the solicitor from the Hardesty case yesterday and the fact that the foreman could well be involved, I'm just wondering what the autopsy photos showed, whether Faye could take a look and see if she can make anything from them. The whole case just seems too similar to what Dupin’s gone through, and now we know that there was something else going on in the background, a cover-up, possibly, I'm wondering about other evidence. You and I wouldn't make any sense of the autopsy photos, but Faye might.”
“We can but ask,” Amanda conceded. They walked with their coffees back to their desks, just as Dupin put his head round the squad room door and called across to Jack.
“Have you got a minute now, Jack?”
Jack looked at his coffee and considered taking it with him. Dupin, as if reading his mind, said, “Bring it with you.”
It seemed people knew Jack all too well. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Once Dupin was safely out of the door frame, Jack glanced at Amanda and rolled his eyes before following him to his office. Dupin sat down in his own chair. Jack took the only other chair on the opposite side of his desk.
“I had a telephone call this morning, a rather interesting telephone call.”
“Oh?” said Jack.
“I believe you went to see Mac McAllister at the prison.”
“I did. yes.”
“Is there a problem. Jack?”
“I was curious about something, that’s all.”
“What has McAllister got to do with anything that you're working on?”
“A line of enquiry. Actually, sir,” said Jack. figuring he’d better put some formality into it, “I've been working on something in my own time, a case that was very similar to what you've gone through yourself. So, I thought I'd take a closer look, since the guy has been rotting in prison for the last fifteen years.”
“And who is that?” asked Dupin.
“Michael Hardesty. You might remember the case from back then, a local battle between Hardesty and Chesney McAllister. Hardesty went down after a car accident and McAllister was killed.” Dupin nodded in confirmation. “There were certain similarities, so I thought I’d take a closer look. And certain anomalies too, I might add. Is there a problem with that?”
“No, no problem. What anomalies do you mean?”
Jack sensed Dupin’s interest had been piqued further. “It seems the foreman and McAllister might have been up to something together. They were seen outside a pub one night. McAllister had the man up against a wall, and they were arguing. Odd, don’t you think? Then a guilty verdict and that’s the end of that.”
Dupin seemed lost in thought, his left hand playing with his lower lip, and merely grunted.
“That’s that, then,” said Jack, standing. “Anything else?” Jack tried again, itching to leave.
Dupin raised his head, still miles away. “No, carry on.”
“Thanks.” Jack shrugged his shoulders and left him to it, perplexed at the strange conversation he’d just had.
But his coffee was getting cold, so Jack headed back to his desk and concentrated on that instead.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
“What sort of mood was Dupin in?” Amanda enquired when Jack returned to the squad room.
“He seemed distracted, actually. He was fine at first. He asked me why I’d been to the prison, about my visit to McAllister, of all things. I don't even know how he knew I’d been.”
“Odd. I wonder how he did know?” Amanda said. “Oh well, mine is not to question why,” she said. “I may as well tell him about questioning Gordon Simpson and get it over with. Then I'm going to head out for some lunch. Back in a minute,” she said, and wandered off in the direction of DI Dupin's office.
As she approached his doorway, there was no obvious sound of conversation. His door was wide open, so she knocked lightly but he was engrossed in something, staring at his desk, oblivious to her presence. She knocked a bit harder on the door and he raised his head this time.
“What is it, Amanda?” he said tersely. Then, as if realising his curtness, he repeated himself in a gentler tone. “Sorry. What can I do for you, Amanda?” He waved his hand for her to take a seat and she obliged.
“You're a
ware of the body that was found at the Simpsons’ old place,” she said, “and I'm sure you're aware that Gordon Simpson is my father-in-law. But we have reason to believe that he could be connected to the body in the garden, and so we need you to interview him formally. Jack is happy to do it, but again he knows Gordon, though not as well as I do. So it’s over to you.”
Dupin appeared to be looking right through her, and she found it unnerving. She gave him a moment to gather his thoughts.
“Right, okay. Yes, I see your point. When is Simpson coming in? Have you told him yet?”
“No, sir. Raj is on to it, but I wanted to give you a heads-up.”
“What evidence do we have on him? asked Dupin.
“Well, that's the problem, sir,” she said. “We don't have anything tying him to the body, apart from the fact that he owned the property at the time when the body was buried, and with only two inhabitants in the house, one of whom is now deceased, we’re suggesting that Gordon Simpson was part of whatever happened, either solely or along with someone else. The only other explanation is that Madeline Simpson herself disposed of Walker’s body, but we find it hard to believe that she could do that all on her own.”
“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 Walker’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, Walker 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 Walker'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 Walker 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 Walker 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 ba
r 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?
