The Murder Club (A Miller Hatcher Novel Book 2)

by Nikki Crutchley

  ‘Oh, he’ll love that,’ Joan said, turning into a room. ‘We get a few copies that we put in the lounge, but they all seem to go walkabout. Good afternoon, Mrs Patel! How are we today?’

  Miller carried on down the corridor. She thumped on the door, wincing at the noise, but Karl wouldn’t hear her otherwise. She heard a muffled noise inside which she assumed meant to come in.

  The wall of heat made her stop for a second at the threshold. All the windows were closed, and the small bedroom smelt of urine and coffee. ‘Karl, how are you?’ Miller said, breathing through her mouth.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Karl asked, turning in his chair by the window, squinting.

  ‘It’s Miller, Karl. Just thought I’d pop in and drop off the paper.’ She crossed the room in four strides. ‘Shall I open a window? It’s a bit hot and stuffy. Let’s get you some fresh air. Did you see all that rain we got before? A shame it didn’t last a bit longer,’ Miller prattled on as she opened the curtains wider.

  ‘No, leave it closed,’ Karl said.

  ‘Why?’ Miller asked, hand hovering by the window. ‘You need a bit of fresh air in here.’

  ‘Nope. Fuckin’ cicadas.’ He adjusted himself in his chair with arms so thin they looked as if they would snap.

  Cicadas? Was he scared of them?

  ‘Too fuckin’ loud. They bloody plant themselves right outside there, on those shrubs.’ He leaned towards the window pointing at the clouds of blue and purple hydrangeas sitting below the window. ‘Bloody clicking and whizzing. They’re the only bloody things happy about this heat.’

  Miller pulled up the other chair to sit by him, wondering how long she’d last in here.

  ‘Two people have carked it in the last week. They tell us its old age, heart, whatever, but it’s the heat. Need air conditioning in this dump.’

  Miller didn’t disagree. ‘Well, we could cool it down in here – you know, help with the heat – if we opened a window,’ she tried again.

  ‘No. Got my fan.’ He pointed to the small oscillating fan on his bedside table that was barely causing a breeze.

  ‘Karl, if you want me to stay, I’m going to have to open the window or I’ll pass out.’

  He grumbled something which Miller took for acquiescing. She opened the window as wide as she could and took a few deep breaths.

  ‘See,’ he said accusingly as if she had doubted him. ‘Fuckin’ cicadas.’

  He was right: the buzz and click of insects drifted into the room. Miller had never minded the sound of the over-exuberant insects. She smiled and tried to change the subject. ‘I brought you a copy of the latest Lentford Leader. Hot off the press.’

  He took it from her and started flicking through the paper with gnarled hands. ‘You’re a good girl.’

  ‘And,’ she said, ‘this.’ She produced a box of Black Knight liquorice from her satchel. ‘Merry Christmas, Karl.’

  ‘Oh, you do spoil me. Thank you, Miller.’ This was often the way it went with Karl – foul-mouthed and grumpy to grateful and appreciative all in one breath. He placed the box on the floor and continued looking through the paper.

  ‘What are you up to for Christmas, Karl?’ Miller asked. ‘Do you have family coming to visit?’

  ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Locked up in this shithole for Christmas. They try and put a little something on but,’ he waved his hand dismissively, ‘it’s always a bit lukewarm. The ones who are out of it don’t even realise what’s happening, and those of us who do would rather be anywhere but here. Instead of watery ham and mashed potatoes for lunch, it’ll be dry turkey and burnt roast potatoes.’ He buried his head deeper into the paper, seeming interested in an ad for the womenswear shop in Lentford.

  Miller had met Karl six months ago and he’d never spoken much about family. He’d mentioned his parents once or twice and a daughter in passing but that was it. Miller wanted to know more but knew there was no point in pushing him, so her visits were made up of general chit-chat, listening to Karl whinge about the food, staff and residents at Shady Oaks, and Miller reading aloud to him.

  ‘I know her,’ Karl said, lifting the newspaper and pointing at Cassie’s photo. He frowned. ‘I know that face. How the hell do I know her?’

  ‘She visited you a few weeks back. Poor girl. She lost her mum a few years back. She – the mum – was murdered. The man who police think killed her is Karl Taylor. Same name as you.’

  ‘I know my bloody name,’ Karl muttered, and Miller considered herself chastised.

  She looked closely at Karl, watching as the creaky cogs in his head began to turn.

  ‘Yes!’ he said. He began reading the article. ‘Cassie Hughes, mother Margaret murdered, body found at dairy factory...’ He carried on reading the story, tut-tutting every now and then.

  He brought the paper closer to him. Miller watched as he studied the identikit photo.

  ‘I’m not sure how good the likeness is,’ she said. ‘The witness the police have was working from a fourteen-year-old memory. I don’t think I’d be very good at describing a work colleague I had that long ago.’

  It seemed as if Karl hadn’t heard. ‘It says here police think there’s a good chance his name isn’t even Karl Taylor. They think he used an alias.’

  ‘Yeah, they think he may have used someone else’s name the whole time he worked in Tauranga.’

  ‘I know what a bloody alias is, girlie!’ Karl turned, his overgrown eyebrows settling low over his eyes.

  Miller patted his knee. He was prone to outbursts like this. She was used to it. ‘I know, Karl. I was just making conversation.’

  With the paper laying across his knees, he went back to looking at the identikit drawing, trembling fingers outlining the hair and face.

  ‘I don’t want to get anyone in trouble, you hear?’ he said.

  She nodded, unsure of what he was talking about. He carried on, ‘But I feel bad for that girl. Cassie. She reminds me of my Amanda when she was younger.’ He gazed out the window.

  ‘Amanda?’ Miller asked. His daughter?

  ‘It’s been over ten years, hasn’t it?’ Karl said, ignoring Miller’s question.

  ‘What has?’

  ‘Margaret Hughes. When she went missing.’

  ‘Fourteen,’ Miller said. ‘Why?’

  A sparrow alighted on one of the hydrangeas outside, bending the flower so it dropped a few centimetres. It regarded Karl and then Miller.

  ‘Grab that bag for me,’ Karl said, leaning forward.

  Miller reached for the plastic bag on Karl’s dresser. It was filled with broken crackers and bread crusts. He took a crust from the bag and with some effort stood up. He reached out the window and the bird, smaller than Karl’s fist, took the crust. It took flight with some difficulty and landed on the grassy area a few metres away.

  ‘Visits me almost every day,’ Karl said, proudly, handing the bag back to Miller.

  Miller smiled but wanted to get him back on track. ‘What were you saying about not wanting to get anyone into trouble?’

  ‘What? Oh, well, my grandson. He’s always been a bit of a bad seed.’

  Miller was quiet, not wanting to break Karl’s concentration.

  ‘But... I don’t know. He had a rough start. I always felt bad for him. He was... different. If I’m honest he scared me a bit.’

  ‘Sorry, Karl, I don’t really know what you’re talking about.’ What’s he trying to say? Is it something to do with Margaret?

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Karl muttered. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘What’s your grandson’s name, Karl?’ Miller asked.

  ‘I’m not bloody telling you. You’ll be off to the cop shop before I know it and they’ll be picking him up accusing him of murder.’ He laughed at her, incredulous.

  ‘Did he murder someone?’ Miller asked, not wanting to make him even mo
re pissed off than he was but she needed to know.

  ‘No, course not.’ He went back to reading the paper, but Miller could tell he was thrown. He held the corner of the paper and was working the page back and forth with his thumb and his forefinger until it ripped.

  ‘You mentioned he was a bad seed, had a rough start to life.’ Miller leaned forward to try and get his attention.

  ‘No, I didn’t.’ He stuck out his bottom lip, sulking.

  ‘Karl, this is really serious. Do you know something about Margaret Hughes’ murder?’ She could hear her voice rising and forced herself to calm down.

  ‘It’s all in the past.’ He stared out the window. ‘No use dragging up what’s long over with.’

  Miller was beginning to get frustrated tiptoeing around him. ‘Karl, do you know something about Margaret Hughes’ murder?’ she repeated. ‘Did your grandson have something to do with it?’ She knew she was pushing; knew he didn’t like it.

  ‘How dare you!’ He threw the paper down on the ground. ‘I didn’t say anything like that. It was you who wrote the bloody article, started talking about this Cassie and Margaret Hughes – not me. I just mentioned my grandson, nothing more. Jeez, I can bloody tell you’re a journalist now. Jumping to conclusions.’ He swiped a hand across his mouth where spit had gathered in the corners.

  ‘Karl, I’m sorry. I obviously misunderstood.’ Miller put her hand on his.

  He withdrew it and turned away from her. ‘You can go now,’ he said.

  She scanned his room. She’d never noticed any photos. A lot of the other residents had them jammed onto every flat surface they could find – bedside table, drawers and windowsills, taking up one whole wall – a lifetime of memories from family homes being forced into one small space. She looked at the solid set of drawers sitting between the wardrobe and ensuite. She couldn’t look there now, not with the mood he was in. Did he have photos of Amanda? Of his grandson?

  ‘Okay, Karl.’ Miller said, knowing she’d have to leave it for now. There was no point pushing. ‘Have a lovely Christmas. I’ll see you in the new year. We can start a new book.’

  She got no answer. As she left she heard the window being wrenched closed and the creak of his armchair as he sat down again, tunelessly humming, as if nothing had happened.

  Joan came out of the neighbouring room. ‘Karl in fine form this afternoon?’ she asked. ‘Grumpy old bugger.’

  Miller smiled. ‘Joan, does Karl have a daughter?’

  ‘I think so. He doesn’t have much family. Never gets visitors, apart from you, dear.’

  ‘He’s spoken of his daughter. Amanda, I think. And also mentioned a grandson. I was wondering if I could get her details. Chat to her... maybe convince her to start visiting?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Miller. We’re not able to give out that kind of information.’

  Miller knew it was a long shot. Joan was a by-the-book kind of woman.

  ‘Maybe chat to him when he’s in a better mood?’ Joan said. ‘Must dash, there are Christmas carols in the lounge and I’m chief conductor. See you, and Merry Christmas.’ Joan marched down the hallway, calling out to various residents to come down to the lounge.

  Miller stopped at reception to sign out. The young woman manning the front desk was on a call, so she flipped the book around to look at it. The book was divided into three columns: ‘Name/Contact phone number/Resident visiting’. Miller read through pages and pages of visitations trying to find Karl’s name. The book held over four months’ worth of visitors but apart from Miller’s name and Cassie’s a few weeks ago, there was nothing.

  Miller waited until the woman got off the phone and introduced herself. ‘I’ve just been visiting with Karl Taylor. He gave me some money to buy his daughter a box of chocolates for Christmas,’ Miller said, ‘The poor thing’s forgotten her address and I was wondering if you would mind giving it to me so I can deliver them to her.’ She crossed her fingers.

  ‘No problem,’ the woman said. Her long nails flew across the keyboard and she noted down the address for Miller on a neon-pink Post-It. ‘There we go.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ Miller said, and left before Joan showed her face.

  On the way to the car, she looked at the address. Holland Road, Hamilton. The police had always said Karl Taylor was from the Waikato. Did they ever suspect he had taken a family member’s name? Probably not – it would’ve made the search even bigger, almost impossible. Had Karl Taylor’s grandson used his name and murdered Margaret Hughes? Is that what Karl was alluding to? Did the identikit force Karl to remember someone he hadn’t thought of or seen in years, someone who he’d been happy to forget about because he’d always been scared of him?

  Miller got home from Karl’s at five o’clock. She looked over at Li’s place, noting the pulled curtains in the front rooms, only now realising that Li had left for Shanghai today. She felt guilty that she’d been so caught up in everything she hadn’t even said goodbye.

  Chapter 36

  The noise entered Miller’s subconscious on Thursday morning. She dragged herself out of sleep, opened her eyes and tried to identify where it was coming from. Not her bedroom. Not inside the house. The front door. A frantic, continuous scratching on the front door. Was it a letter? Was he standing outside her door right now?

  She tried to calm her breathing as she walked out of her bedroom and stood in the hallway. No letter on the carpet, but the scratching continued. At the door she reached out for the handle. She turned the lock and opened the door in one smooth motion, ready to face whoever was out there. She looked down. Patsy jumped up the small step and started barking, dancing in circles yapping at her. Miller bent down to pat her, trying to work out what was happening. Li was in Shanghai. Patsy was supposed to be at the kennels. Why was she here?

  ‘Patsy, here Patsy,’ she murmured to the dog, trying to calm it. She crouched down, her hand outstretched. ‘Come, Patsy.’ That’s when she saw it, on the dog’s front paws, on her face, the pinkish hue on her white fur.

  ‘What’s this, Patsy?’ she asked. ‘What have you been up to?’ But she knew. She knew what it was.

  She tried to keep calm. ‘Where’s your mum, huh?’ Miller slipped on a pair of jandals by the door, kept on murmuring to Patsy, trying to calm the dog, trying to calm herself. She walked over to Li’s place, Patsy sitting comfortably in her arms.

  Miller tried the front door, knowing it would be unlocked. She stepped into the house and Patsy jumped from her arms, landing awkwardly on the wooden floorboards. She barked at Miller and disappeared down the hallway. The house already had that closed-up musty smell, along with something else, sour, but Li had only left yesterday morning.

  Miller walked down the hallway, following Patsy’s whimpering. Flashes of Madi’s house came to her, her lounge, her hallway, her bedroom. The memory halted Miller’s steps, preventing her from getting to Li, but then she quickened her pace when she realised Li might need help. She rounded the corner into Li’s bedroom and fell against the door jamb. Her vision blurred and she covered her mouth from the stench – a sweet-sour rotten smell, like nothing she’d ever experienced before.

  She swallowed and felt tears prick her eyes. She needed to ring Kahu but no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t move. Her eyes were locked on Li’s dead body.

  Blood from a head wound had congealed on the floor, marring the white carpet. A navy scarf lay limp around her neck. Li’s body was bloated and her perfect skin was a marbled grey-green colour; a red foam gathered around one corner of her mouth and nose. Miller couldn’t work out what the low hum was at first until she spotted the blowfly alight on Li’s head, joining at least a dozen others. Miller felt the bile rise and ran to the toilet to throw up.

  She choked back sobs as she went into the lounge. She called the police station and asked to be put through to Kahu. It was a long wait while they tracked him down and Miller
tried to calm herself. It didn’t work. The deep breaths she took made her feel ill. The smell of death was lodged in her nostrils.

  He’d got her. Li was dead. Was this personal? He knew where she lived, probably knew she was friends with Li. He did this because of her.

  ‘Parata.’ Kahu’s voice came down the line and Miller lost it completely. She couldn’t believe she was making another call like this to Kahu.

  ‘Miller? Miller, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?’ She could hear the worry in his voice and tried to pull herself together.

  ‘Li. My next-door neighbour. She’s dead. He got her, Kahu. Please come...’ She felt her knees give way and she fell to the floor. She couldn’t be in the house any longer. On hands and knees she got herself out the front door where she gulped in the air that smelt of lawn clippings and heat. She buried her face in her knees. She couldn’t believe she was here again. She was like his puppet. He killed. She discovered.

  Within ten minutes Kahu arrived with his team and Ash pulled up in a patrol car. They both ran to her. Ash got to her first. She sat next to Miller on the step, a protective arm around her shoulder. Her head close to Miller’s, she said, ‘I was having a coffee with Kahu when you rang. Come on, you don’t need to be here.’ She took Miller’s hand and helped her up. Ash guided her out of the driveway and back to her house. In the kitchen she made coffee and heaped two teaspoons of sugar in while Miller sat at the kitchen table. She placed it in front of Miller, who pushed it away with a shaking hand, the smell making her feel nauseous.

  Miller’s teeth started chattering so Ash left the kitchen and came back with a throw from the lounge and wrapped it around her. Miller heard footsteps and Kahu appeared in the kitchen. ‘Sorry, just had to make some phone calls.’ He took a seat at the table with them, placing a hand on Miller’s and giving it a squeeze before withdrawing it. ‘What made you go over?’

  ‘Patsy, Li’s dog. She was scratching at the door this morning. She had blood on her.’

  ‘Okay,’ Kahu said.

  ‘Where is she?’ Miller asked.