MURDER IN MALLOW COTTAGE an addictive crime thriller with a twist you won’t see coming (Detective Inspector Siv Drummond Book 3)

by GRETTA MULROONEY

  Siv rallied, shoving her chair back. ‘You should be. Saul Robbins is a suspect in two murders. We have to find him now. You need a solicitor.’

  Diane gulped water down and named a solicitor. Siv said they’d see to it. They left her with custody colleagues and hurried to Saul Robbins’ home. There was no time to waste.

  * * *

  They arrived just after 10 p.m. It was a top-floor flat in a block of twelve. They heard blues music thundering as they approached the door. After Ali had rung the bell and then hammered on it several times, a young man opened it with a bottle of beer in hand.

  Ali flashed his ID. ‘Is Saul Robbins in?’

  ‘Afraid not. He was here earlier on, studying and stuff, but he went out a couple of hours ago.’

  ‘Are you his flatmate?’

  ‘That’s right. Tony Prudence.’

  ‘Can we come in?’ Siv asked impatiently.

  Jimi Hendrix was singing ‘Hear My Train a Comin’’ as they stepped into the living room. It was so loud Siv’s ears hurt. She mimed to Prudence to turn it down.

  ‘I bet your neighbours love you,’ she said.

  Prudence shrugged and hitched up his tracksuit bottoms.

  She asked, ‘Do you know where Saul is?’

  ‘Nah. He came home about six, after he’d been for a run. He’d been sitting for hours writing an essay, so he needed exercise. I’d just given him a beer when someone phoned him, and when he finished the call, he said something about the shit hitting the fan. He was a bit weird, actually, pacing around and listening to phone messages. I asked him if he was OK and he gave me this funny stare. He said something about going back to where it started, and then he rang someone. He took off again after that.’

  ‘Do you know who he called?’ Siv asked.

  ‘No. He went to his room.’

  ‘Do you expect him back?’

  ‘I presume so. He didn’t say he wouldn’t be home tonight. He’s been a bit odd recently. Agitated. I’ve heard him get up during the night.’

  Ali asked, ‘Does he have a partner?’

  ‘Not for a while. Never mentions anyone, anyway.’

  ‘Try ringing him,’ Siv said to Ali.

  ‘No point,’ Prudence told her. ‘He left his phone in the kitchen, and that’s weird too.’

  Siv slipped gloves on, found the phone and rang the last number on incoming calls. When she’d finished speaking, she turned to Ali. ‘That was Andy Smeaton. He said he’d phoned Saul this evening to find out if he had any news of Diane. Smeaton saw her coming with us this afternoon. Later on, he spotted that her car was still parked at the rear of the retort. I’m just going to try the last number Robbins called.’ She rang and listened to an automated message saying that the number wasn’t in service.

  ‘What’s going down?’ Prudence tipped his head back and finished his beer.

  ‘We’re not sure. How does Saul get around?’

  ‘He cycles.’

  Siv handed him a card. ‘If Mr Robbins comes back, please ring me immediately. I need to take his phone with me. We have to search this premises — don’t go into his room. Officers will arrive with a warrant soon.’

  Outside the flats, Ali reached for his cigarettes, checked himself and took gum from his pocket instead. ‘Bloody Smeaton, sticking his nose in. Now Robbins has had warnings from him and Diane. He’ll know we’re onto him.’

  ‘Damn. I could kick myself. I should have warned Bailey not to speak to anyone. I was in too much of a hurry to get to Diane.’

  ‘Never mind. Where the hell’s Robbins gone? “Going back to where it started.” To the crem, maybe?’ Ali yawned and shook himself.

  Siv leaned against a streetlight. Snow was falling again, casting a strange silence on the world. Perhaps this road was taking them back to where it began. ‘That’s a possibility. Come on. We’ll try the chapel steps.’

  ‘We’d better ring Smeaton, get him to open the gates.’

  ‘No. It’ll take too long. We’ll climb over Emmeline’s Gate, like our killer did.’

  In the car, they were both tense. The heater hummed and the windscreen wipers swished the snow away. The streets were quiet, with people huddled indoors.

  ‘Sounds like Robbins was wired about something,’ Ali said.

  ‘Yeah. Panicking, I’d say. I wish we knew the last person he called.’ Siv had a horrible, sinking sensation that they might be about to find another body. Mortimer would make a caustic comment regarding the head count.

  ‘D’you think Diane Lacey was aware of what Robbins was up to with Bailey?’ Ali asked.

  ‘She’s protective of Robbins. When I mentioned him, her eyes filled up. She seems an unlikely murderer, and she has an alibi. But she indicated that she’d got out of her depth.’

  ‘Well, I have a feeling she’s going to find the lifebelt’s missing,’ Ali said.

  They parked in the deserted road, beside Emmeline’s Gate. Siv climbed over first, with Ali puffing behind her. Holding their torches, they ran through Bluebell Copse and down the path towards the chapels. The snow scattered under their feet. The chapels loomed through the dark — tall and eerily beautiful, watching over the ranks of the dead. One external light shone over the central door. Siv slowed and caught her breath. She half turned to Ali. ‘Quiet now. Turn your torch off.’

  They approached silently. Wind whispered in the trees behind them. Siv feared seeing a body on the steps. She stopped, inching forward, heart thudding. They were snow dusted, empty. She exhaled with relief. They walked around the chapels, but all was hushed and still. Ali was panting hard. Siv let him take just a moment. She was sure where to try next.

  ‘Mallow Cottage and fast,’ she told Ali. She took off, running back to the car. Her torch played on the frosted bushes, conjuring strange shapes from them. She was filled with dread now.

  Siv drove at full speed, tearing around corners.

  Ali gripped the dashboard. ‘If he’s not at the cottage, where next?’

  ‘I reckon we won’t have to cross that bridge,’ Siv said grimly.

  When they drew up outside the cottage, no lights showed.

  Ali tried the door. ‘No sign of a break-in.’

  ‘Round the back,’ Siv whispered, switching on her torch.

  She led the way and halted as she turned the corner. A bike leaned against the side of the cottage. She carried on slowly, each step silent in the soft snow.

  The back garden was in complete darkness. She stopped. No sounds. She lifted her torch beam from the floor and gasped as it danced on a dark shape. That of Saul Robbins. He’d used one of the garden chairs to stand on. Now, it lay on its side and he dangled from the rope he’d attached to a downpipe.

  They hurried forward. Ali grasped his legs, lifting his windpipe away from the knot.

  Siv felt for a pulse. ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘No sign of life and he’s cold to the touch. Call it in. Ring Patrick as well and tell him to come here. I want you to go home as soon as he arrives.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Ali protested, ‘there’s no need—’

  She held up a hand. ‘That’s an order, non-negotiable.’

  ‘Fine, fine.’

  When he’d made the calls, Ali looked up at the body.

  ‘D’you think he and Diane were lovers?’

  ‘No, I believe it was platonic. They gravitated towards each other because they each recognised a fellow traveller in life. Fighting the odds, overcoming adversity.’

  They waited with the body in the cold. Siv watched Ali move down the garden, by the summerhouse, and give in to the craving for a cigarette. She stood by the fence. Looking up at the dark shape in the gloom, Siv’s thoughts raced. Robbins had loved Freya Blewitt. He had to be their killer, but it didn’t make sense. There were still too many holes. They had nothing to link him directly to Warren and Kilgore. Every question answered just posed another.

  Snow glittered in Robbins’ mousy curls and clung to his padded jacket. It hung open, exposing just a
thin T-shirt, and Siv had an irrational urge to zip it up. Nothing would warm him now.

  Chapter 23

  It was two in the morning by the time Siv got in. On the way home, she’d received a call from the station. Diane Lacey had just seen an email that she’d received from Saul Robbins the previous evening, when they’d been interviewing her. They’d forwarded it to Siv. She also had a USB stick that uniformed officers had taken from Robbins’s PC.

  She kicked off her boots and woke up the stove, feeding in kindling. Then she poured a large glass of akvavit, took marinated artichokes, feta cheese and olives from the fridge and ate them with her fingers, standing by the kitchen window. Outside, the snow had stopped, but a rising breeze scattered flakes from the spindly trees. She saw the reflection of the stove’s red and orange flames as it blazed into life. The sight was a comfort after the grim scene at Mallow Cottage.

  She sat by the fire with her drink and opened her laptop. When she inserted the USB stick, she saw various folders named Course/Syllabus, Essays, CV Notes, Textbooks, Submission Dates and Dissertation. Essays contained more than thirty documents with titles like, ‘Adding value in a marketing team’, ‘Describe the most important features of competitive strategy’ and ‘Explain your understanding of organisational culture as a leadership tool’. Siv saw from the Course folder that Robbins was doing his MBA via the Rother Business School.

  She switched to her email. Robbins had sent Diane the message at six thirty the previous night. The subject line said, Give this to the police. Above the attachment was one word. Sorry. Siv clicked the attachment and read, reaching for her glass now and again. The tone and content contrasted sharply with Eugene Warren’s elegiac musings on nature. Robbins was prickly, resentful, angry. He’d certainly hated his menial work at the crematorium and relied heavily on Diane’s support.

  I murdered Eugene Warren and Henry Kilgore. My friend, Yaz, helped me, but I planned it and I did it.

  This is in case I get the bad breaks and the police are smart. I’ve no intention of being questioned for hours and going to jail. I’ve had enough of being bossed around and treated like dirt. I’ve left this because I want Diane to understand. She deserves that. She and Yaz are the only people who’ve ever helped me. Diane’s the only one who treats me with any respect at work. Yaz has been amazing regarding my MBA. She’s given me lots of encouragement and advice.

  I hate my fucking job. It’s OK when I get to help Diane in the retort now and then, but the rest of the time is just shit-shovelling. Toby barely notices me. Andy acts as if I’m his sidekick, and that old bat, Phoebe, treats me as if I’ve got dog muck on my shoes. No idea why she reckons she’s so special — she’s never done anything with her life except stand behind a desk. The way she goes on about how much her collection makes, you’d think she was running an international charity. I decided that as I’m a case in need, I’d help myself and benefit from her fund. I started by taking a twenty.

  It all kicked off last November. I helped Bertie Greene move some second-hand furniture into his place. He’s such a loser, but he needed a hand. It’s a grotty flat, but when you’ve done time, you can’t expect much. We got some beers in afterwards and a takeaway. Bertie got pissed, saying that life picked on him. Other people’s crap had spread over him and it wasn’t his fault. He started to drone on about Eugene Warren visiting him in prison. I wasn’t really listening until he mentioned Freya. He told me that Eugene had screwed Freya and they’d hung out at the cemetery, drinking and taking drugs. Eugene got them from someone called ‘The Wheel’. Henry Kilgore joined in sometimes. He went to Mallow Cottage with them and they took Ecstasy. Freya collapsed and they dumped her by the hospital. Lots of stuff about how much Eugene regretted what had happened.

  I loved Freya. I know I’m still young, but I’d say she was the love of my life. I fancied her for ages before I asked her out. I had no confidence in myself and I was over the moon when she said she’d come out with me. She was so calm, sweet and understanding. She never took drugs. A sheltered kind of girl, but she was preoccupied with her parents’ rows. She didn’t like them much, because they were at each other’s throats all the time. I realised she was upset because of all the crap going on at home and I liked protecting her. We didn’t go out for long, but I really felt we got each other and we’d be long term. I could never understand why she suddenly said she didn’t want to see me anymore. I was heartbroken. I couldn’t concentrate at school and my marks started to slide. Then when I heard she’d died, I hit rock bottom, couldn’t be bothered with anything. It’s why I left school with mediocre grades and ended up in that crap job at the crem.

  Then I understood that Eugene stole her from me. I’d heard he made a habit of hitting on other guys’ girls, but I never thought that was why Freya dumped me. Never occurred to me that she’d be interested in him. So, he took her away and then he filled her full of drugs and killed her.

  I was beside myself. After what Bertie had said, I went to Diane’s office and told her about Freya and me and that Freya had died. I didn’t mention Eugene or give her Bertie’s details. I couldn’t burden her with that. I just said that I might have an idea about who’d been involved in Freya’s drug overdose. But then, everything got on top of me. I broke down and confessed I’d stolen from the bereavement fund. Diane was shocked, but she told me as long as I promised not to do it again, she’d say nothing. She urged me to go to the police about my suspicions regarding Freya. I said it was all too unclear. I wanted more time.

  I wanted to do something about Warren and Kilgore but I needed to find out who ‘The Wheel’ was before I decided. Bertie mentioned that Eugene worked at a place called Pie Mad in London, so I went there and hung around. He was hawking food about on a stupid trike. What a loser, and yet even though he’d ruined Freya’s life, stolen it from her, he got to live! I followed him home to a grotty terraced street. On the way back from London, I kept remembering Freya. She was so small and dainty. She fitted under my arm. I loved her but Eugene couldn’t have given a toss about her. I should have done more to keep her safe. If I’d persisted with her, kept in touch and insisted on finding out why she’d stopped seeing me, I might have found out about Eugene, and I could have stepped in. But I was too knocked back.

  I decided to torment Eugene a bit. I’d seen the Berminster Breaks brochures around town, so I picked a couple up. A pretty photo of Mallow Cottage, where Freya spent her last evening. I got Albie Bailey to write messages on them. Then I sent the brochures to Eugene. He could sweat. A week later, I sent Eugene a note with my phone number. Just said my name was Saul. I told him I knew what he and Henry had done to Freya and he’d better call me.

  Siv rubbed her eyes. She was so tired the words were blurring. She started to read the next entry, but fell asleep, the screen glowing on her lap.

  * * *

  When Siv reached her office the next morning, she spent the first hour or so finishing Saul Robbins’ account and highlighting pages. Ali and Patrick were continuing to interview Diane Lacey with her solicitor present. Mid-morning, her stomach was rumbling, so she popped to Gusto and bought a team brunch of coffee and a selection of croissants, with a fruit-topped porridge for Ali. Mortimer appeared in her office with a jaunty air just as she arrived back.

  ‘I’m joining you for your debrief,’ he announced.

  Ali raised an eyebrow. Patrick looked pleased. Siv tried for bland.

  ‘Of course, sir. I’d have brought you a coffee from Gusto if I’d realised. But you can have a croissant.’

  ‘Very kind. Are you well on the road to recovery, Carlin?’

  ‘Aye, sir, thanks. Steaming onwards.’

  ‘Headlines first,’ Siv said when they were all seated. ‘We have confirmation that Robbins died from suicide by hanging. I’ve been reading his account of the murders. He’s our killer, by his own admission, but he had a helper. Bertie Greene told him about Warren, Kilgore and Freya Blewitt. The confession he wrote clarifies quite a few things an
d tells us how he murdered Warren and Kilgore. But it leaves one big question dangling, and that’s the identity of the person he describes as his helper. All he writes is that it was a woman called Yaz. I believe Robbins’s last phone call before he killed himself was to that person because he rang a pay-as-you-go mobile and that number’s now dead. Ali, you take us through Diane Lacey’s interviews.’

  Ali tore his eyes away from her croissant. ‘Diane got friendly with Saul Robbins at the crem. Took him under her wing and helped him with his studies for an MBA. He came from a similar background to her, hadn’t had many advantages, and she saw that he was fragile and easily crushed. So, she identified with him and wanted to urge him to aim higher. Seems to have been a big sister or mother figure to him.

  ‘Then, last autumn, a couple of things happened. Phoebe Palmer reported the theft from the bereavement collection. Robbins went to Diane, upset and agitated. He told her he’d been in love with Freya and explained how she’d died from a reaction to Ecstasy. Diane described a difficult, emotional scene. She claimed that Robbins made no mention of Warren and Kilgore’s part in it. He did indicate that he had suspicions about who’d been with Freya when she became ill. He confessed that he’d been stealing from the collection box. The way she described it, she slapped his wrists and told him not to do it again. She pitied him.’ Ali ate a blueberry from his pot of porridge before he continued.

  ‘Diane’s a highly competent professional where her job’s concerned, but when it came to Robbins, her judgement deserted her. After Warren was found, she started to wonder about Robbins’s notions concerning Freya’s death. He was jittery and lacked concentration at work. She had no reason to believe he was connected to the murder, but she was uneasy. She claims she asked him if he knew anything about it, and he got terribly upset and accused her of doubting him, so she left it there.’

  Patrick said, ‘She told us about the theft from the bereavement fund because she had no other option.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Ali confirmed, ‘but also because when Phoebe Palmer first broached it to Diane, she said she suspected Robbins. Diane thought that Phoebe was just indulging her dislike of him and cautioned her not to make allegations. She gave us the info about the theft because if she hadn’t, Phoebe Palmer might well have. That way, Diane controlled the story before we saw Foxwell. She maintained that she had no idea about the messages on the brochures and that she knew nothing about the murders.’