Det Annie Macpherson 01 - Primed By The Past

by Speake, Barbara Fagan

  ‘Westford Hospital.’

  ‘Good morning, could you put me through to the Intensive Care Unit?’

  ‘Hold on, caller.’

  ‘Intensive Care.’

  ‘Good morning, I’m Detective Annie Macpherson, investigating the assault on Angela Goodman. Could you tell me how she is this morning?’

  The voice on the other end of the line, who had only identified herself by the name of the ward, hesitated for a moment. Annie could hear pages being shuffled. ‘Mrs Goodman is alive but still in a coma, her breathing assisted by a ventilator. The next 24 to 48 hours will be critical.’

  Annie let out a deep breath, relieved that she had confirmation that Angela Goodman had survived the night. ‘Thank you. We’ll need to know if there is any change.’

  ‘There is a note in the file here to telephone either you or a Detective Bronski.’ With that, it was clear the nurse felt she’d better things to do. Efficient, perhaps officious, or maybe Annie just had to get used to the cultural difference.

  Bronski walked in just as Annie was hanging up the phone. ‘Angela Goodman survived the night, but she’s still in a coma.’

  ‘So no chance we’ll be interviewing her today then.’

  ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  As she was about to pour, Dave Ellison appeared with three cups of Starbucks coffee. He passed the first one to Annie. ‘Just returning the favour from yesterday.’

  ‘Much appreciated,’ Annie replied.

  Then taking the other cup from its holder, he passed it to Bronski. ‘Oh and I saw you coming in as well, Detective. Latte, OK?’

  ‘Glad you didn’t leave me out, Ellison. I might have become jealous.’ Bronski took the latte.

  Ellison placed the last cup on his own desk and started to peruse the messages in his tray. But first he gave Annie a little wink.

  Annie returned to her desk, knowing that Bronski would want time on his own to sort things out before they conferred, prior to reporting back to Franconi later that morning. Bronski would be at least half an hour if previous days were anything to go by. First she made a note of the phone call to the hospital in the time log and then turned back to the beginning of the file. She reviewed the interview transcript from when she’d seen Angela Goodman for the first time.

  Looking at the date, she realised she’d only been on the exchange programme for three days, and on the evening before, Bronski had said that he thought she could deal with any inquiries which came in from the desk first thing the next morning. He’d be late so she was covering. She remembered how she’d only just sat down and opened the bottom desk drawer to put her handbag in when the phone rang, startling her, and then her relief when she heard Sergeant Patrick Owens’ voice on the line, rather than a direct call from a member of the public. He was very accommodating and had told Annie on day one that if she’d any questions, just to ask him.

  She recalled the conversation they’d had.

  ‘Good morning Detective, hope you haven’t gotten too comfortable upstairs while we do all the hard work down here. If you can drag yourself away from your coffee or whatever you detectives spend your time doing, I need you down here to interview a woman, a Mrs. Goodman.’

  Annie warmed to the gentle ribbing. ‘I think I could do that for you Sergeant, since you asked so nicely. Any idea what it’s about?’

  ‘Thinks she’s being stalked. I said I’d get someone down to take a statement. Seems pretty stable,’ he said, his voice slightly lower with the last remark.

  ‘I’ll be right down.’

  Then just as Annie had reached for her notebook and pen, Franconi had come out of his room ‘Got your first case already, Detective?’

  ‘That was the desk sergeant, sir. There is a woman downstairs wanting to report a stalker.’

  ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll handle that.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Annie remembered seeing Mrs Goodman sitting in one of the chairs in the waiting area. In fact she was one of three women sitting there that morning. Two of them looked like part of a pair, a mother-daughter combination, most likely. The younger one had obviously inherited the mother’s genes as they both had ample figures and the same lank hair. The third woman was very attractive, if not pretty in the conventional sense. Her hair was meticulously cut in a dark brown fringe with longer sides just touching her shoulders. She was dressed in a crisp, light blue suit with a silk blouse, probably office attire. Annie thought she too would look better with a little less weight.

  ‘Mrs Goodman?’

  The smartly dressed woman stood up.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to come with me. I’m Detective Annie Macpherson.’

  Mrs Goodman accompanied her without a word and Annie avoided any small talk on the way to the interview room. Unlocking the door, she gestured her to the seat at the opposite side of the table, furthest from the door. Cops were taught never to be the one furthest from the door. Of course, there were also alarms fitted under the table, if need be. But Mrs Goodman looked more like she might faint, rather than attack. But procedures were procedures. Annie remembered now that she’d come right to the point.

  ‘Now Mrs Goodman, would you like to tell me how you think we can be of help?’

  ‘I hope I’m not wasting your time. I don’t really know where to begin.’ Opening her handbag, the woman fumbled for a small, embroidered handkerchief, too prissy for Annie’s tastes.

  ‘Just take your time.’

  ‘I’m going through a divorce, not very amicable, though I don’t suppose many of them are. My husband left me for another woman. I didn’t see it coming, felt like such a fool when he finally owned up. How could I have missed that one coming?’

  ‘What is your husband’s name?’

  ‘George … George Goodman, although his name is ironic. He’s certainly not an angel, doesn’t deserve that name. Sorry I’m nervous, I know I’m digressing.’ Mrs Goodman put the handkerchief back in her handbag.

  ‘That’s fine, but divorce isn’t a police matter, Mrs Goodman, so what is the problem?’

  Angela Goodman shifted in her seat. ‘I’m sorry. At work I’m the one in control. I’m the team leader in charge of a whole section. I don’t know why I find other situations, like this one, so difficult.’ Angela hesitated momentarily, continuing after a deep breath. ‘The reason why I’m here is that I am sure someone is coming into my house during the day when I’m not there. It’s just little things: ornaments moved slightly, less milk in the bottle, a drawer left open a fraction. Nothing major, but I’m very precise and I check things. I have to be precise in my job. I’m in charge of the underwriting section for Westford Capitol Insurance. Sorry, I’ve already told you that, haven’t I?’

  ‘Not precisely, but coming back to the things you’ve noticed, have there been any signs of forced entry into the house?’

  ‘If you mean, have the windows or doors been tampered with, the answer is no.’

  ‘Does your husband still have a key? Does he still have things in the house?’ Annie was jotting down notes.

  ‘Yes, but?’

  ‘Have any of his things been removed? There may be a simple explanation for this.’ Annie was trying to state the obvious, which people sometimes didn’t see when they were upset. ‘If things are being moved in the house, and there is no sign of a break in, then it’s likely to be someone with a key, isn’t it? If I were you, I’d think about getting the locks changed.’ Annie put her pen down for a moment.

  ‘I know, that’s what my lawyer advised. I haven’t done it yet. Somehow I hate the thought of doing that. The house is still in our joint names, even though I have residency and I haven’t checked whether all his things are still there. I find it too painful.’

  ‘Then you’ll need to discuss the residency issue wit
h your solicitor, sorry, I mean your lawyer.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right of course. I feel a bit silly now. I guess it’s just my nerves. I’m sorry I bothered you. I’ll look into the locks today. And if it is my husband, I expect he will complain through his lawyer. At least that will set my mind at rest.’ The woman reached for her handbag and pushed the chair back.

  The interview lasted no more than ten minutes and when Annie showed Mrs Goodman to the exit, nothing more was said.

  Now looking again at the transcript, Annie wondered what she’d missed. Maybe if she’d reacted differently that day, Angela Goodman would be at work now, supervising her staff. My first case and I’ve blown it already, Annie thought.

  10

  The news item was brief, but enough information for him. He knew what to expect when he answered the phone.

  ‘I thought you said it was finished.’

  ‘I thought it was, until I heard it on the news. I thought she was dead.’

  ‘There’s a big difference between being in a coma and being dead.’

  ‘Hey, I wanted this as much as you did. It’s all I’ve thought about.’

  ‘You broke your promise.’

  ‘I never break promises, especially to you. There’s still time to rectify it.’

  ‘So a promise is still a promise then?’

  ‘I’ll take care of it.’

  Time now to consider how to remedy the situation. Planning was what he was good at. Why did the execution of the plan go wrong? At least his other plan had succeeded. Just covering tracks, that was important. That was what he had been taught and except for the one mistake, he had learned that lesson well.

  He opened the diary and began to read that section once more.

  11

  Connie Lombardi decided that she couldn’t leave it any longer – a whole week and still no word from her boyfriend. It wasn’t like him, no matter what her mother had to say about it. But before she could take action, the phone rang.

  ‘No mother, I haven’t heard from him … Yes I am very worried … No, they say that there is nothing they can do: adults go missing all the time.’ But she wouldn’t give her mother the satisfaction of hearing the comment made by the insensitive officer, ‘Perhaps he had a reason to disappear.’ The remark had made her feel small, ugly. But she trusted Jason, knew there had to be a reason. He said he loved her, and acted like he did. What more could she ask for?

  Hanging up the phone, Connie Lombardi recalled the events of the past week.

  Sunday: Jason never turned up to take her out for the meal they’d planned. Several phone calls to his cell, but every time it was on voicemail.

  Monday: Waking up with a really bad feeling, she tried the cellphone again but it was still on voicemail. After work she went straight to the police. It didn’t really help that she didn’t know his address. Reporting him missing and not even knowing where he lived. No wonder they didn’t take her seriously.

  Tuesday: Too upset to go to work, she phoned in sick. Not a good move. Her mother’s friend worked at the same place, so her mother got to hear about it and then harangued Connie for a good half hour on Tuesday night. The search of all the places they’d been to together yielded nothing. It was starting to dawn on her how little she really knew about her boyfriend. He knew her body well enough and that thought both embarrassed and excited her. Once she’d loved his mystery. Now it seemed too cruel.

  Wednesday: Back at work. His voicemail was full, so she couldn’t leave any more messages, and still no word. There were visions now of him lying face down in a ditch somewhere, never to return to her, not able to let her know where he was. The search along their favourite walk revealed nothing. Coming back to her bedroom she sat down and cried. A worn T-shirt of his, languishing in the laundry basket was all she had to show for months of a relationship she’d convinced herself would last.

  Thursday: Over a bottle of wine, she wrote down every fact she knew about him. Sure she could describe his body in great detail, but the rest? Yes the rest escaped her. As she downed the last glass of wine, his favourite Pinot Grigio, the page remained mostly blank.

  The rest of the week, indeed the whole weekend, was a blur: tears and tantrums, a long argument with her mother and cursing Jason for putting her through all this. Not even the task of telephoning all the hospitals on Saturday did much to cheer her up. There were no unidentified males in any of them. At least that was something. So here it was again, Sunday night. Just maybe the police would take her seriously tonight given that it had been a week. What else could she do?

  12

  By the time Franconi called the two of them into his office, Annie had convinced herself that she was going to get a dressing down. As usual he didn’t look up at them until they were both seated. Franconi’s body language didn’t seem to bother Bronski but it annoyed Annie intensely. Who would have thought they’d shared a meal last night? Then, he was marginally more endearing.

  ‘So what have you got?’ Franconi wasn’t wasting any time, sat back in his chair and starting to pick his fingernails.

  Bronski had the file open on his lap, feigning finding where he wanted to start, although the two of them had it well rehearsed. ‘Angela Goodman, 39 year old female, currently living on her own, following her separation from her husband. The divorce is anything but amicable, as it appears that Mr Goodman has been having one affair after another.’

  ‘How do you know that Detective?’ Franconi was now staring at Bronski.

  ‘Mrs Goodman reported to Detective Macpherson that the reason for the divorce was that her husband was having an affair. Jackie Winters, who found Mrs Goodman in her house following the assault, told us that Angela would have forgiven him the affair, until he told her that his current girlfriend was the third he’d had since their marriage.’

  ‘Names, do we know who these women are?’ Franconi was starting to shift in his seat.

  ‘Jackie Winters said that she only knew the name of the current one, Genevieve Montgomery. We’ve traced her: she manages a designer boutique. We’re going to pay her a visit this afternoon. We still haven’t located Mr Goodman but she may be able to help us. His employers only know that he’s on vacation but didn’t tell anyone where he was going. Apparently, he gets on fine at work, no complaints from his boss. Obviously keeps his private life separate. They knew he was married but not in the process of a divorce. He’s due back at work on Monday.’ Bronski paused in case Franconi wanted to ask anything else at this juncture.

  Franconi nodded for Bronski to continue.

  ‘Seems that Angela Goodman is well liked at work, very efficient manager, no complaints from her bosses. She unloads at work, though. Everyone we talked to knew about the divorce. Apparently she refers to George Goodman as the bastard.’

  ‘Charming. What about the crime scene?’

  Relieved to have skirted beyond the original interview, Annie was now anxious to take part in the briefing and when Bronski paused, she came in. ‘There was no sign of forced entry. The locks were intact on both doors and no sign of any damage to the windows. So, either she let the attacker into the house or he had access to a key and let himself in, either before she got home or very soon afterwards. There was a lot of blood in the bedroom which forensics are examining, as well as fingerprints, fibres and hair samples from the sheets in her bedroom. The house was trashed, paint strewn around the rooms, so he had to have been there for quite a while. There was one footprint left in some of the paint and one glass on the draining tray, which is also being examined for prints. Nothing of value seems to have been taken: TV, jewellery, but of course, we can’t be sure of that, because without Mrs Goodman to tell us, we don’t really know what might be missing.’

  ‘But you’re thinking the motive wasn’t robbery or a random attack?’ Franconi was tapping his pen a
gainst his notebook, his other habit, marginally better than the fingernail picking.

  ‘There was too much damage in that house for me, well for us,’ Annie glanced over at Bronski who nodded in agreement, ‘to think it was random. It seems that it was someone who wanted to attack, not only Mrs Goodman, but her sanctuary, the place she came home to every night where she should have been able to feel safe.’

  ‘Hmm, seems that way, doesn’t it? But spare me the sob story, Detective. You’ll soon discover that not many houses over here offer much sanctuary.’

  Annie recoiled a bit, but hoped that she didn’t show it. That remark wasn’t called for, in her view.

  Franconi continued undeterred. ‘So nothing from her job that would seem to lead to the attack. You don’t think it’s random, or a robbery. So, if I hear you right, the only one in the picture so far is the husband, who’s conveniently out of town. Well, we can’t wait till Monday, so get on to the mistress and see if she knows where he is. My guess is that she knows. Also, see what you can find out about the previous ones.’ Franconi paused but he was obviously still considering the information. ‘What about the car the neighbours reported?’

  This time it was Bronski. ‘Jim Moorcroft dropped her home about midnight. She’d spent the evening with him and his partner, Jackie Winters, the same couple who found her.’

  ‘He check out so far? Maybe he circled back and let himself in. They have a key, didn’t you say?’ This time Franconi was still, the pen on the desk lying beside his notebook.

  ‘They do, but from the state they were in at the hospital, I wouldn’t think they’d be involved. They were both very distressed at having found her like they did. They thought she was dead at first and are so relieved that she’s still alive. Jim Moorcroft says he came straight back home after dropping her off and didn’t notice any other cars or anything suspicious. Said he’d waited for her to let herself into the house. Jackie Winters can’t verify his alibi as she said she went straight to bed, leaving the cleaning up until the morning. Never heard him come in.’ Bronski nodded in agreement. Neither detective had considered the couple as suspects after they’d spoken to them.