by David Blake
‘Do you know the name of the clinic they used?’
‘It’s called Buxton Manor. It’s not far from here. Just over Ludham Bridge, on the way towards Barton Broad.’
Tanner checked to make sure Jenny had made a note of that. ‘Mr Richardson mentioned to us that he and Jane led relatively separate lives, despite the fact that they were married. Would you say that was true?’
‘I know they had their own sets of friends, and that Simon would occasionally go away to play golf with his. Jane was always fiercely independent, a bit like me, I suppose.’
As John Lambert seemed so composed, Tanner thought it was a good time to get one of the formalities out the way. ‘We’ll need to arrange to take DNA samples and fingerprints, from both you and your wife, at some point.’
‘Is that really necessary?’
‘I’m afraid it is, yes. But it’s just a formality, for purposes of elimination, to help us identify evidence found without wasting valuable time. Shall I send a forensics officer around, or would you prefer to come down to the station?’
‘The former, obviously!’
Tanner and Jenny said goodbye once more, and headed back to the car.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
AS TANNER EASED the car around the circular drive towards the wrought iron gates, Jenny asked, ‘Do you think it was Richardson?’
Tanner thought for a moment. ‘We’ll have to see how his alibi stands up, but it certainly sounds like he’s got a motive.’
‘Inheritance money?’
‘Uh-huh,’ he nodded. ‘In my experience, people do some very stupid things when large amounts of money are involved.’
‘But why would he wait until she was pregnant? If he was going to kill her, you’d have thought he’d have done so before, given the effort and expense involved in IVF. Why put himself through that unnecessarily?’
It was a good question, one which naturally led Tanner to think of another possibility.
‘Maybe it’s not his own child.’
‘That would make sense,’ said Jenny. ‘If they were having IVF treatment, maybe he was the one who couldn’t have children, so they had to resort to using someone else’s sperm.’
‘Which could be why he didn’t think it worth mentioning to us when we first spoke to him.’
‘It’s even possible that she’d decided not to tell him that the baby wasn’t his, though that would involve the collusion of the IVF clinic.’
‘And when he found out, knowing at the back of his mind he’d inherit a small fortune, he went and…’
As they waited for the gate to open, Tanner and Jenny stared at each other.
In less than a minute, the idea of Simon Richardson being the prime suspect for the murder of his wife had changed from vaguely possible to highly probable.
Bringing them back down to earth, Tanner said, ‘But it’s still going to depend on his alibi, and for a conviction we’d need some sort of physical evidence to link him directly to the murder.’
The gates were fully open, and as they drove through he added, ‘I suppose we’d better get back to the station, to see if there’s been any developments. But before we do that, I suggest that we take a quick look at this IVF clinic. What was it called again?’
Referring to her notes, Jenny replied, ‘Buxton Manor. I think I know where it is.’
‘If we can have a quick chat with them, then at least we’ll be able to find out if the baby was Richardson’s. If it was someone else’s, then I think that may explain why he decided not to wait until she’d had it.’
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
BUXTON MANOR WAS an imposing 18th Century manor house set within an acre of beautifully landscaped gardens. It had magnolia painted walls, lead-lined windows and a steep thatched roof, one that had lost its pristine yellow sheen many years before and was now an uninspiring dull grey colour.
The house itself had served as a discreet private medical centre for a little over six years, providing a wide range of services, IVF treatment being one of them.
At the end of the gravel drive, Tanner carefully parked between a midnight blue Aston Martin Rapide and a sultry black Bentley Continental.
Removing her seatbelt, Jenny said, ‘Someone’s making some money!’
‘Someone, as in, not us!’ remarked Tanner.
As he pushed open the Jag’s heavy door, it creaked loudly, as if in protest at having to rub shoulders with two such opulent modern cars.
Opening her own door, Jenny said, ‘You may want to put some oil on that.’
‘On me, or the door?’ questioned Tanner, groaning as he heaved himself out.
‘I suppose that depends on if you enjoy being covered in oil whilst someone tugs at your handle,’ said Jenny.
The second she’d said it, she knew it was too much, even by her own standards.
‘Sorry about that. It just sort of…slipped out!’
But Tanner was becoming increasingly used to her highly suggestive, borderline inappropriate remarks, and came back with one of his own. ‘With it being covered in oil, I’m not surprised!’
Grateful he’d not taken offence at the remark, which if not unprofessional, was most definitely unladylike, she gave him an appreciative smile, and together they crunched their way past a couple of more average-looking cars, up to Buxton Manor’s main entrance.
Inside the manor was very much in keeping with the outside. It had a low ceiling with exposed wooden beams, and although Tanner wasn’t tall enough to hit his head on them, he found himself instinctively stooping to make sure that he didn’t.
Even the wide reception desk seemed to be designed to fit with the rest of the building, as it had been carved out of dark mahogany; and where one would normally find medically-themed posters lining the walls, instead were elegant landscape paintings of the Norfolk Broads, in a variety of different views.
From behind the desk, a round-faced young woman with a mass of permed blond hair welcomed them with a professional smile.
Pulling out their respective IDs, Tanner asked, ‘Could you tell us who manages your IVF department?’
‘Dr. Khatri is our IVF and gynaecology specialist. I assume you don’t have an appointment?’
‘I’m afraid not, no.’
‘OK. Hold on. I’ll see if he’s free.’
She picked up her desk phone, pressed a button for a line and a moment later said, ‘Sorry to bother you, Dr. Khatri, but there are a couple of police detectives at reception asking to see you.’
A short pause followed, before she said, ‘OK, thanks. I’ll let them know.’
Replacing the receiver, she looked up at Tanner and said, ‘He’ll be down in about ten minutes. Would you like a coffee while you wait?’
Noticing that there was a pot of filtered coffee standing on a table just behind the reception desk, for a change Tanner accepted the offer, and turned to Jenny. ‘Coffee?’
‘I wouldn’t mind.’
Unsmiling, the receptionist pushed herself up from her chair to prepare the two coffees, asking, ‘How’d you like it?’
‘Milk, no sugar,’ replied Tanner.
‘Same for me, thanks,’ added Jenny.
The receptionist passed the two white cups and saucers over the top of the desk. Then, looking from Jenny to Tanner, she leaned forward, and in a low conspiratorial tone asked, ‘I don’t suppose you’re here about that murder that was on the telly this morning?’
With the strong sense that the woman was the type who felt it was her civic duty to tell everyone about everything and anything, embellishing whatever it was in the process, Tanner thought it best to lie.
‘Oh no, nothing like that.’
Exchanging glances between them, keeping her voice low, she asked, ‘But I assume you are here for…professional reasons, and not because you two are…?’
The two police inspectors gave each other an embarrassed glance, before Tanner stated, ‘It’s police business! Nothing more. And nothing of any great importance
.’
‘Well, that’s fortunate, for you at least.’
Glancing around to make sure that there was nobody else in reception to overhear what she was about to say, she went on, ‘You know, I can’t help but feel sorry for the couples who do have to come here for IVF treatment. It must be dreadful for them, not being able to have children, and everything.’
Neither Tanner nor Jenny felt even remotely comfortable being included in such a delicate conversation, and attempted to show their disinterest by looking away whilst drinking their coffee.
‘Of course, it’s never been a problem for me,’ she continued, seemingly oblivious to just how inappropriate the two police officers felt such a conversation was. ‘I fell pregnant within a few weeks of me and my husband deciding that we wanted to start a family, and I’m already expecting our second!’
As she said that, with one of her hands resting over her lower abdomen, she asked, ‘Would you like to see some pictures?’
Without waiting for a response, she picked up her smartphone and began frantically swiping at the surface. ‘I’ve got some in here somewhere,’ she said, smiling proudly. ‘Yes, here they are!’
After she’d stared down at the screen with a look of maternal pride, she was about to show Tanner and Jenny when a side door opened and in walked a stick-thin middle-aged Asian man with hollow cheeks, sunken brown eyes and greying black hair.
From over the tops of their coffee cups, Tanner and Jenny gave the man a look of social desperation, but he didn’t immediately look at them. Instead he approached the desk, leaned over the top of it and whispered, ‘Are these the two police officers?’
Hiding her smartphone, the frumpy-looking receptionist replied, ‘They are, yes.’
He turned to greet them. ‘You’d better come through, but I’ve only got a few minutes.’
Tanner and Jenny abandoned their cups on top of the desk, thanked the receptionist for the coffee, and hurried over to where the door was being held open for them.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
ENTERING A DARK wood-panelled office, they were shown to two old dining chairs set before an antique writing desk, one which had a worn green leather writing surface bearing an open laptop.
Taking his own seat, clasping his hands on the desk the man said, ‘Right, so, I’m Dr. Khatri. I’m the lead consultant for the Gynaecology and IVF department. How may I help?’
Tanner said, ‘We’re here to investigate the death of someone who we believe to be one of your clients, a Mrs Jane Richardson.’
There was a long pause before he responded by saying, ‘I’m sorry, but did you say that Jane Richardson is dead?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ confirmed Tanner.
With his obvious surprise turning to a look of disbelief, the doctor asked, ‘But…how? I-I mean, I only saw her on Saturday!’
‘We believe she was killed later that evening, on her way back from work.’
‘My god! How awful!’
‘Yes.’
‘And how do you think I’d be able to help?’
‘We’ve just been to see her parents. They told us that Mrs Richardson and her husband had been coming here for IVF treatment, and that the treatment was successful.’
‘That’s correct, yes. The meeting on Saturday was the final one.’
‘Did her husband attend that meeting?’
‘Not that one, no.’
‘Did he miss many of them?’
‘He did have a tendency to.’
‘Is that normal, for the husbands not to attend?’
‘I’d say it’s a little unusual, but he’s hardly the first. Believe it or not, some men still seem to be of the opinion that reproduction is primarily the responsibility of the woman, and so they don’t feel it’s necessary for them to come along.’
‘Does it depend on who’s the cause of the problem?’ asked Tanner, feeling forced to confront his own thoughts on the subject.
‘Not really. Even if the problem lies with the man, they’re often unwilling to accept it.’
‘And in the case of the Richardsons?’
Dr Khatri frowned at him. ‘You’re asking me if they were here because of Simon or Jane?’
‘I am, yes.’
‘Well, unfortunately, I’m unable to answer that question; it’s strictly confidential.’
‘I understand,’ Tanner said, ‘but this is a murder enquiry.’
‘And what can that possibly have to do with the death of Jane Richardson?’
‘We feel it may have a bearing on motive.’
‘Motive?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Are you seriously suggesting that Simon murdered his wife?’
‘At this stage we’re simply trying to establish if there is a motive for such a possibility.’
‘Why on earth would he do that? She was eighteen weeks pregnant!’
Treading carefully, Tanner said, ‘We’re wondering whether the fact that she was pregnant could be a motive, if he never wanted her to be.’
‘But that’s hardly likely though, is it!’
‘Why?’
‘Why would he have gone to all the trouble and expense of having IVF treatment if he didn’t want it to work?’
‘We don’t know, but we do know that they didn’t pay for it. It was financed by Mrs Richardson’s parents.’
‘But, even so!’
Deciding to move the conversation along, Tanner asked, ‘I assume that in some cases, when the man is found to be the problem, that the sperm from another man has to be used?’
‘In some cases, yes, of course, but in those circumstances IVF wouldn’t be the correct course of action for them.’
‘So you’re saying that that wasn’t the case here?’
‘I’m not prepared to say either way, but my previous answer should be enough for you to work that one out for yourself.’
‘So, Simon was the father of the baby?’
Instead of answering, the doctor simply stared at him.
Realising he wasn’t going to say more, Tanner looked over at Jenny and said, ‘I think we can take that as a yes.’
Pushing his chair out from his desk, Dr Khatri stood up and said, ‘If that will be all, I have another appointment.’
Having learnt what they’d come to find out, Tanner got to his feet. ‘Thank you for your time, Dr Khatri. We’ll show ourselves out.’
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
BACK OUT IN the carpark, having managed to slip past the receptionist without saying goodbye, Jenny said, ‘At least we know that Richardson was the father.’
‘Which I think makes it less likely he killed her,’ replied Tanner. ‘Not after she became pregnant. Anyway, for now I suggest we head back to the station and see if there have been any developments.’
As they pulled their respective seatbelts on, Jenny suggested, ‘How about we pick up something to eat on the way? There’s a garage just down the road.’
Glancing down at his dashboard, Tanner saw that not only was it gone half past twelve, but that the needle of his petrol gauge was resting on the red.
‘No problem,’ he replied. ‘I could do with some petrol as well, and a coffee.’
‘Not at the same time, I hope!’
Smiling, Tanner reversed out of his parking space, and was soon turning out of Buxton Manor, back onto the road.
Five minutes later he pulled in to the garage and drew up alongside the nearest free pump.
As soon as the car stopped, Jenny undid her seatbelt, and grabbing her handbag, asked, ‘Can I get you a sandwich?’
‘That’s kind of you, thanks. A ploughman’s, if they’ve got it.’
Leaving him to fill up the car, she crossed the forecourt and headed inside.
Even before he’d finished filling up, she was coming out again, her hands empty.
Replacing the pump’s nozzle back in its cradle, Tanner said, ‘Don’t tell me they’ve run out of coffee?’
‘You’ll never guess
what’s happened.’ she said, with breathless excitement. ‘They’ve arrested Simon Richardson!’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously! It’s on the local news!’ and she gestured inside the garage shop.
‘I’ve got to see this,’ said Tanner, nudging his way past her.
Just above the tills, hanging down from the ceiling, was a small flat-screen TV, tuned in to the BBC local news, where a sombre-looking male reporter was talking to the camera, directly in front of Wroxham Police Station. At the bottom of the screen, next to the title LATEST NEWS, the strapline said, Man arrested in connection with local murder inquiry.
Entering the garage behind him, Jenny said, ‘When I was here, they were filming Burgess leading him inside, in handcuffs. They must have discovered something when we were out.’
‘No kidding!’ exclaimed Tanner. ‘But even so, it’s far too soon to make an arrest, surely!’
They watched the TV together in silence for a while longer, before Tanner reached for his wallet. ‘Let me pay for the petrol, then I suggest we get back to see what’s been going on.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
CREEPING DOWN THE heavily congested road towards Wroxham Police Station, it soon became apparent that the news of what was now a high-profile murder investigation had spread. Three media vans were parked awkwardly on the kerb opposite the station, the one from BBC East having being joined by Channel 4 and Sky News, and they’d done so in such a way that cars coming into Wroxham from the other direction were being forced to steer around them.
As Tanner indicated left into the station’s carpark, he could see a dozen or so reporters milling about on the pavement, directly outside the station, some with large TV cameras held down by their side, others with stills cameras hanging around their necks. All of them were keeping an eye out for something to film. The sight of Tanner’s Jaguar XJS turning in must have been unusual enough for them, as many began focussing their lenses on the car.
