by Franklin, JJ
‘Doll, lollypop, and now a toy soldier. What the hell is going on here?’
‘Damned if I know. The professor is bound to have a theory though,’ Jason grinned.
‘I’ll bet he will.’ Matt nodded, fully aware that he would be forced to listen to the team’s profiler. Everyone knew he disliked working with the man, who always acted as if he was superior and cleverer than anyone else.
‘I would say, looking at the dust pattern, that the murderer hid his props behind the heating panel at least two days ago.’
‘So he’s a planner.’
‘With access.’
‘And almost certainly wore gloves.’ Matt sighed thinking of the difficulties this gave the team. ‘What about the door?’
‘Don’t think he is the sort to slip up, but we’ve dusted, just in case.’
‘We’ll have to eliminate the staff.’
Jason shifted his gum to one side. ‘Already started with the maintenance department. Surprising how many men it takes to keep these places going.’
‘Good. Let me know how it goes. I can spare a constable or two if necessary.’
Jason shook his head. Matt knew he much preferred to work with his own team whenever possible. ‘Got that lady…’
Matt raised his eyebrows in question.
‘Big lady, posh hair do—head receptionist or something. She’s checking if they’ve had any outside company doing work in the therapy rooms recently.’
Matt handed the evidence bag back to Jason. He would find out everything he could about the soldier down to the last detail of where and when it was made.
‘I’ll let you have the details as soon as I can, Matt.’
‘Thanks.’ Matt left Jason to make his way back to Reception intending to speak to Mrs Trowbridge.
There was no sign of Eppie or Mrs Trowbridge, although that estimable lady had left him a sealed envelope. He opened it as he walked back to her office where Sam was waiting with the therapist, Stuart Williams, who couldn’t seem to remember where he had worked before.
There was silence as Matt entered the room. Sam had his sheepdog-cornering look fixed on a young man, who was good looking except for his intense sullen look. Sam kept his gaze fixed as Matt sat down beside him, while the young man hitched himself up like a condemned man hoping for a lenient judge.
Sam spoke without looking at Matt, his eyes on the therapist. ‘This is Stuart Williams, Guv. Employed one week and can’t seem to remember where he last worked. My guess is that he has been a bad boy back there and doesn’t want his reputation to catch up with him.’
Matt took a moment to read the contents of the envelope before he looked up and spoke to Stuart. ‘Well, Mr Williams, does Fairfield Health and Sports club ring any bells?’ For a moment, Stuart’s eyes flickered as he realised he couldn’t hide any more, and that he would have to tell the truth. Matt watched the turmoil in him and saw the change, as he had seen many times before, when the suspect becomes almost aggressive in their own defence and quite willing to send their own Grandma down the line if it would save their skins.
‘OK, OK, I’ll tell you what happened.’ Stuart held up his hands almost like a supplicant.
Matt waited, watching as Stuart formed the best way to present the story in his head.
‘She was a client, and well, you’re not supposed, supposed to fancy them, are you?’
Matt nodded for him to continue, making sure that his face showed none of the disgust he was feeling.
‘Except that it’s bloody difficult sometimes, when they act like that,’ Stuart continued.
Matt refused to give him the encouragement he was looking for and instead waited. Stuart looked from Matt to Sam before stumbling on.
‘They…she…are always flirting and acting…you know. And it was damned hard at times not to want to…well, you know.’
‘So you couldn’t control yourself with the clients?’ Matt asked.
‘Not all of them. I mean more than half are old bags you wouldn’t want to touch. Unless you were getting paid to of course.’
‘So it was just the young, pretty ones,’ Sam threw in.
Stuart did not seem to realise that he was backing himself into a corner. ‘They were up for it. Said I was fit.’ Stuart flexed his muscles as he enjoyed the memory.
‘Until?’ Matt questioned.
There was silence from Stuart. He knew he was going down a one-way alley. ‘Till this silly cow starts making a fuss, saying I molested her. I reckon she makes a habit of it. Probably wanted money. Anyhow, I wasn’t stopping around there to be taken for a ride.’
Matt sighed and stood up. ‘Take a full statement, Sam. Then check with Sussex Police; see if they need Mr Williams to answer any other charges. I’ve got more important things to do.’ Matt turned at the door. ‘Oh, and you may want to come clean with the management here before we have to do it for you.’ Matt was pleased to see that trapped look had returned to Stuart’s face before he closed the door behind him.
CHAPTER 12
The timing was perfect. Having just finished his uninteresting salad, Clive was contemplating investing in an unaccustomed dessert, when he saw Mrs Turrell come from behind Reception accompanied by the matron-like woman. Both women seemed pleased and shook hands, as if they were sealing a deal. It looked good.
The thought excited him, and he began to imagine all sorts of possibilities. With the DI’s wife working on reception, it would give him the chance to build up some sort of rapport with her, as he had done with Sandi.
Clive already had Sandi eating out of his hand, so he saw no reason why this spirited young lady would be immune. He would become her confidant and friend, only while she was at work of course. She would be lonely with her new husband tied up in this dreadful murder case. And Clive planned to keep him busy for a long time yet. If he played his cards right, this girl would provide him with valuable information about DI Turrell. ‘Know your enemy’ would be his motto, and the DI’s wife would become his special agent.
Having perfected the role of a caring, almost saintly son, women trusted Clive; they saw him as a ‘new man.’ They liked to feel they understood his burden, and he patiently listened to their advice.
He practised his charm on the women in the office, and he knew any of the single girls would jump at the chance to go out with him, if asked, but he was adept at keeping them at bay, apart that is from dear Anne.
He watched as Eppie took a quick detour to glance down the corridor to the right, guessing she wanted to tell her good news to the DI. There was only minor disappointment on her face as she came towards him. Clive stood, as trained, as she approached.
‘Good news?’
‘Yes. I start tomorrow.’
‘That’s quick.’
‘Yes. One on sick leave and another on maternity.’
‘Well done. Would you like lunch or a coffee to celebrate?’
‘No. But thank you. I have a lot to do if I’m going to appease the angry husband.’
So the DI would arrive home to her news, and Clive was sure he wouldn’t be happy. ‘Ah yes, the delicatessen. It’s not far.’
As he led the way out of the building towards the car park, he realised having Mrs Turrell follow him meant that she would know his car. This would put him at a disadvantage for the next part of his plan. But there again, Clive reasoned, if Mother and Margaret were anything to go by, women hardly noticed cars as long as they were clean and in working order.
When they reached Rossini’s delicatessen and bakery, she parked her car next to his in the small parking lot. Inside she seemed delighted and Clive guessed she would be here for a while. He watched her as he ordered some ham for Mother.
‘This is just perfect. I feel like I am still on honeymoon.’
‘Will you be able to find your way home from here?’
‘I think so. I just carry straight on along the main road.’
‘Right. Well, I will leave you to it then. And good luck with your husba
nd.’
She laughed and raised a hand in thanks, too caught up in deciding on what to buy to pay him much attention.
Before getting into his car, Clive made a mental note of her licence plate, and then he drove out of the parking lot and out onto the road, parking several cars away.
After seven long minutes, he watched her come out, loaded with bags and looking rather pleased. Waiting for her to place the bags carefully in the back of the car, Clive wondered what Ben’s favourite foods were, and if he liked to cook.
He had always been glad to leave the cooking to someone else. Mrs Sinclair was a good cook on a fairly plain and simple level who could, if given enough notice, rise to almost gourmet levels for special occasions like Mother’s birthday. It would be lovely to invite Ben to the house, but not with Mother installed. Yet another disadvantage of having her living with him.
Clive wrenched himself out of these daydreams and started the car as Eppie pulled out into the traffic, managing to manoeuvre himself so that there were just two cars between them. For once, he was glad that most cars on the road were silver, like his, as it made it less likely she would spot him.
The small three-storey block of flats, Miranda Court, was on the outskirts of town in a leafy area on the Kenilworth side of Leamington Spa. He guessed the block had been built about twenty years ago.
As Mrs Turrell pulled into the resident’s car park, he wondered what to do next. Should he follow her into the building to see which flat she lived in? If he did, she might see him, and he certainly didn’t want that.
He hesitated as she struggled with the door code and the heavy bags until she entered the lobby, before deciding that discovering which flat she and the Inspector lived in could wait until he had the cover of darkness.
All the information he had gathered today about the DI made him vulnerable and gave Clive the advantage. He felt confident that he could outwit him, even with his smart little team around him.
Time to start planning his next move, one designed to show the DI and that clever little constable who was boss. Still kicking himself for the mistake, Clive vowed he would make the young lady pay. He was beginning to enjoy this intrigue. Maybe he should follow the constable home next. The more he knew about the team the better.
By the time he arrived home, it was too late to fit in Mother’s shopping trip, and he knew she was cross the minute he walked in and heard her sharp, brittle voice telling Mrs Sinclair.
‘No thank you. I do not want a tray on my lap. I will wait for my son, although goodness knows where he has got to. He knows very well he had an arrangement to take me shopping.’
Clive braved the living room making sure that he had a worried, apologetic look on his face, to accusing looks from Mother and Mrs Sinclair, who had her coat on ready to leave. Playing up the ordeal of being on the scene of a murder, not to mention being questioned by the police, he sank into his favourite chair with the air of one at last reaching a safe haven. Once he had their attention, he began to explain himself.
‘I’ve had a very harrowing experience.’
‘Oh dear. What on earth happened Mr Draper?’
‘I can’t even bear thinking about it.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘For goodness sake, Clive, stop shilly-shallying and tell us what happened.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Clive.’ Mother never had an ounce of sympathy. Well, not where he was concerned anyway. She had set her face determinedly against his tears at Father’s hands believing that was the way to raise a man.
‘There was a murder. At the spa.’ He watched as his news hit home. Whatever they were expecting it wasn’t this. Maybe they thought Clive had been involved in a car accident on the way home. But a murder, now that was worthy of even his Mother’s attention and he relished the word.
‘A murder,’ he repeated, enjoying the sound.
‘Oh my goodness.’
Mrs Sinclair dropped into the nearest chair and unbuttoned her coat as shock sent a hot flush soaring upwards, turning her neck and face a beetroot colour. But Clive wasn’t going to let her take the attention from him. Mother was made of sterner stuff and barely glanced in Mrs Sinclair’s direction.
‘So who was murdered?’
‘I heard someone say it was a young girl. She was in one of the treatment rooms, practically next door to me.’
‘But I thought you were going to the gym?’
Too late, he realised that his pride had outstripped the need for caution. His dear Mother was always as sharp as a tack.
‘Lisa was just giving that pulled muscle a quick massage.’ Mother accepted the lie although she took a second more than necessary before her eyes left his face.
‘Margery—get a glass of wine for Clive. And have one yourself—you look like you need it.’
Clive cursed himself for embellishing the story and kept everything factual as he described how they were herded into the café, ordered about and questioned by Inspector Turrell.
By the time he had finished, they were feeling suitably sorry for him, and Mrs Sinclair had poured him a glass of his favourite red wine. Now, as they finished clucking over him, he wanted to be on his own. He was sure his exploits of today would receive attention from both the local and national press, and he couldn’t wait to see his publicity.
Pretending concern for keeping her so late, and thanking her profusely for staying with Mother, he hurried Mrs Sinclair to the door. It was a relief when the door closed behind her. Clive headed straight into the kitchen, calling to Mother on the way.
‘Won’t be long now, Mother.’ Mother said something in reply but by then he was halfway down the flagged hallway and into the modern, black and white kitchen. Ignoring the steaming casserole, he turned to the small television, thankful he had purchased it to keep Mrs Sinclair happy.
He was delighted to find the murder mentioned on both the local news and the national news. The rush of power and excitement reminded him of the time he won the cup for unarmed combat. He had enjoyed seeing all those nondescript faces looking up at him and clapping. Soon, the whole nation would come to realise how important, how powerful he was. No one would beat him now.
One young reporter was inclined to be lurid and called it ‘The Baby Doll’ murder, which he didn’t like. Nor did he like the solid reassuring tones of the local police superintendent who vowed that his force was doing everything they could to catch whoever committed this heinous crime and, while the public should continue to take normal precautions, there was no need to panic. His rather pompous tone made Clive determined to prove him wrong, and he began to plan his next statement.
He knew that it would be prudent to place his next message in a different location, but he wanted to throw down a personal challenge to DI Turrell. The Inspector would look such a fool when another murder took place right under his nose, where no one would expect it, back at the health spa.
Clive began to think of ways he could undermine the Inspector. Maybe he would start by sending him a small token, and, thanks to the new Mrs Turrell, he could send it straight to their home. It made him smile, as he imagined how this would worry and distract the DI from the case.
Looking forward to the DI’s downfall, he reviewed his plans as he carried the meal through to the dining room. Mother annoyingly wanted to keep talking about his experience.
‘Did you say the Inspector’s name was Turrell?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘That was the man who was responsible for getting little Gracie killed. You remember—Joan Harrison’s granddaughter.’
She had his attention back. He remembered it now. Inspector Turrell had arrested the wrong man, leaving the real murderer to kill again. ‘Yes, I do remember. Let’s hope he does better on this case.’
‘He should have been disciplined.’
Clive half-heartedly agreed with her while wondering how this past mistake had affected the Inspector. Either it would make him more determined to solve a case, or he
would become over anxious and miss vital evidence. Not that Clive intended to leave any for him. There was little chance that he would be caught.
As Mother chatted on, he allowed his mind to run through the plans for his next statement. He knew where to place it as, having often walked around the grounds of Heath Stone Spa, he had come upon the perfect spot.
It was a wooden contraption with two seats facing each other, which swung back and forth depending on the input from whoever was seated there. Although rather a shame that the occupant wouldn’t be in a position to start the swing, once he had placed her there, he could give a little push just to start it off.
The swing was situated at the end of a small pond, which had been widened out from a small stream. There was a little wooden bridge, more for show than need, which led to the putting green and the smoker’s tent.
The smoker’s tent was a popular place as Clive had found after wandering in there by accident one day. He hadn’t stayed long, as the six ardent smokers, although at first eager to claim him as one of their own, were just as eager to close ranks on the outsider without a cigarette in his mouth, and who seemed in no hurry to light up.
Before he strolled away, he noticed the several statuesque vases filled with colourful flowers at intervals around the tent, placed there no doubt to give an illusion of health and beauty to those who were so intent on destroying themselves. Similar vases were dotted around the health spa, and although they looked like expensive ceramic creations, he had found on investigation that they had a small hollow centre. A perfect hiding place for his props.
His next problem would be to find a suitable subject and then to get her into the appointed position. Clive could hardly carry her out through the main entrance in full view of everybody, nor could he walk out chatting with her, as that would take him straight to the top of the suspect list.
The added problem was that most guests only stayed a few days, with the odd exception, like Mrs Potterton who, according to the waiter, came for two months every year and sat regally alone in the dining room at her chosen and favourite table. She was too old to fit in with his plans, and Clive laughed at the ludicrous thought of her in one of his party dresses.
