The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 1 -3

by Phillip Strang

  To her, Ingrid Bentham would need to be a callous, cruel-hearted woman, but according to Stephanie Chalmers, the children had loved her, and for a short while so had Gregory Chalmers. The children’s love had been unconditional, the love of a child for an equal, whereas the husband’s love had been carnal.

  Sara had seen the photos of Ingrid. She was a beautiful woman, slim but not skinny. Her complexion was very pale; that may have been the photo’s exposure, although more likely indicative of a woman from the north of England; her Viking heritage showing through. Sara imagined that if the woman stayed in the sun for too long, she would burn, not go brown.

  Sara, objectively taking Gregory Chalmers’ point of view, could see the attraction to a man in his forties, feeling for the first time the lessening of passion in his loins, the need to bed someone as fresh and sensual as Ingrid. According to her flatmate, Ingrid had been with no other man, yet she was the sort of woman that men would have lusted over.

  In an age where sexual equality was taken for granted, it was strange that Ingrid Bentham remained the wallflower when all around were engaging in musical beds. That had been her life too, Sara reflected, until she had met Bob. Now, all she wanted him to do was to propose and put a ring on her finger.

  Chapter 4

  Sean O’Riordan arrived at the Chalmers’ house at ten in the evening. A uniform stood outside. As he had driven up the road, he could see the uniform relaxing: the night was cold, and the policeman at the door was struggling to stay focussed. Crime scene tape had been placed across the front door to the house. Sean showed his badge, ensured to put on foot protectors and gloves.

  The kitchen was clearly off limits, and besides, it was not the place to find a recording. The sitting room appeared to offer no possibility. There were several DVDs, but they were commercial, mainly children’s cartoons and films. He was looking for something with a hand-written label. The house was still officially on lockdown as a crime scene, and Sean was aware that blundering around was not advisable. He made his way upstairs. The first bedroom was obviously the parent’s room where the Chalmers had slept, and the husband had first seduced Ingrid. The next bedroom was not used, other than as a hobbies room.

  The third bedroom, belonging to Billy, judging by the computer and the plane models, offered more of a prospect. It was clear that the young child was well-organised. His school books and DVDs were all lined up and in their place. Sean thought it offered the best chance of finding what he wanted.

  He stood back and scanned the room, reluctant to move anything other than was necessary. He took a few photos before he touched anything. At the end of the row of DVDs, six in total, he saw one labelled ‘birthday party’. The label had been printed, probably by the printer next to the computer.

  He removed the DVD, placed it in a plastic bag, identified it, took a photo of where he had taken it from. The girl’s room he checked on the way out of the house. He then returned to the office. He knew that his girlfriend would be fast asleep by the time he got back home in the early hours of the morning, and was aware that she would not object if he woke her up on his arrival.

  Back in the office, Sean took a copy of the disk and placed it in his laptop, the screen lighting up after a few seconds with a group singing an out-of-tune rendition of ‘Happy Birthday.’

  There were two children and one adult; the one adult they wanted to hear.

  ‘Billy, it’s your birthday. You get to cut the cake,’ Ingrid said.

  Sean texted Sara, knowing that she would want to know immediately.

  ‘Great. Six in the morning in the office. We’ll need to find an expert on regional accents,’ Sara replied.

  She had been wide awake when the SMS had come through, going over her notes, evaluating the case, and what to do next. Bob was lying next to her; he was fast asleep. She had not heard from Keith. She called him.

  ‘Still up,’ he said.

  ‘The same as you.’

  ‘I’ve been staking out Ingrid Bentham’s flat. Her flatmate has only just arrived home, drunk by the look of it. I was just about to knock on her door. Give me thirty minutes, and I’ll message.’

  ‘Thanks. Six in the morning. Okay by you?’

  ‘I may as well not go home,’ he said sarcastically, but Sara knew it was only his dry humour.

  Keith gave the flatmate fifteen minutes before he knocked on the door. She had brought company home; a male voice bellowed for her not to answer the door, and to get back in the bed.

  The door to the flat opened. ‘Detective Inspector Greenstreet. I have a few questions.’

  ‘It’s late?’ the drunk woman slurred back at him. She was naked.

  ‘It’s a murder enquiry. It’s not a nine to five, sociable hours’ investigation. You spoke to Detective Inspector Stanforth before.’ Keith knew he was verging on harassment, but he was determined to get a result.

  ‘I’ve told her all I know. Go away. I have a man here, and he’s more attractive than you.’

  Keith Greenstreet, not an attractive man, he knew, had been insulted enough times over the years, even shot at on a couple of occasions. The last time put him in the hospital for three weeks, while he recuperated after they had removed the bullet from his spleen.

  ‘That may be, but he will have to wait.’ Keith wedged his shoe in the door as she attempted to close it.

  ‘If you’re not going away?’

  ‘I’m not. Tell your boyfriend to get some rest, build up his energy.’

  Keith entered the apartment. It was evident that housekeeping was not Gloria’s forte. The place was a mess, with clothes strewn everywhere. The kitchen sink was stacked high with dirty plates and cutlery.

  ‘I’d better put on some clothes,’ Gloria said.

  ‘Suit yourself. I’ve seen enough naked women in my time.’

  Gloria returned two minutes later, an oversized tee-shirt barely covering her modesty. She still wore no underwear.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘We need to find Ingrid Bentham.’

  ‘Don’t look at me. The bitch has left me with her share of the rent to pay, and now I need to find another flatmate.’

  ‘How about him in the next room?’

  ‘Him! Are you joking? He’s just an idle screw. Apart from his dick, he’s not much use.’

  ‘Have you known him long?’

  ‘Three hours. Long enough for you?’

  ‘It’s hardly the basis for a lasting relationship, is it?’ Keith said.

  ‘I don’t need lasting relationships, just a man when I need one.’

  ‘And Ingrid?’

  ‘She never brought a man here. I asked her why not.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said that she’d had enough of men, and did not need them.’

  ‘Lesbian?’

  ‘Not at all. I was lonely one night, made a play for her. She was angry, did not speak to me for several days.’

  ‘Any medication?’

  ‘Ingrid? Every day, although I don’t know what it was.’

  ‘Did you ask?’

  ‘As long as she paid the rent, and she didn’t screw the men I brought round here, what did I care?’

  It was evident to Keith that Gloria, was at best an unreliable witness; at worst, a slut who screwed men as it suited her. Keith imagined that if he asked around the area, he would find out that Gloria was not as well respected as Ingrid, except in the opinions of the local studs.

  The plaything for the night could be heard snoring loudly in the other room. ‘It seems as if he will be no use tonight,’ Keith said.

  ‘Him? Give me five minutes, and he will be,’ Gloria replied.

  ‘What else can you tell me about Ingrid?’

  ‘Nothing. We shared a flat, that was all.’

  ‘Clothes, jewellery. Any that you borrowed?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘If you lie to me, and it comes up in a court of law, you could be charged with obstructing the p
olice.’

  ‘Well…’ There was a pause.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There was this ring.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I sort of borrowed it.’

  ‘Stole or borrowed is not my concern. Do you have it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘In my bedroom.’

  ‘I will need it as evidence. I’ll fetch it.’

  The sight in Gloria’s bedroom was not pleasant. The man, a strapping tattooed individual, was lying naked on his back. The smell of stale beer was overpowering. Keith found the ring in the drawer, as Gloria had described. He placed it in a plastic bag and wrote on the outside: location, time.

  He left soon after, stopping only to make a phone call on his mobile. ‘I have a ring that belonged to Ingrid Bentham. It’s engraved on the inside.’

  ‘Six in the morning. Great work,’ Sara replied.

  ***

  Sara regretted that she had asked her primary team to meet at six in the morning. Not that the idea was not good, it was. It was that she was not an early morning person. Some, she knew, were at their best in the morning; others, in the afternoon and through to late at night.

  It was evident the next morning as to which category her new DC belonged. There Sean O’Riordan was, bright and alert, as she staggered into the office at just after six. At least Sara had to admit that she looked better than Keith Greenstreet; the man looked as though he had slept on a bench in the park, but then, he was nearly thirty years older than her.

  ‘Foul hour of the morning,’ Keith said.

  ‘Sleep well?’ Sara asked.

  ‘What little there was.’ A singularly unexciting reply.

  Sean O’Riordan, newly elevated from police constable to detective constable, was anxious and biting at the bit to get started. Sara had to concede that he suited plain clothes. His first day in the office, his suit had been brand new, off the rack, and here on the second day, there was another suit, this time a lighter shade.

  Must be costing him plenty, she thought. She reflected on her early days as a detective inspector. She had served her dues, five years in uniform, initially administrative. In the past Keith Greenstreet would have said it was woman’s work, but now political correctness forbade such words, and he had received a reprimand behind closed doors from his DCI on more than one occasion.

  Sara was not a person to dwell on the past, and her time at her first police station north of the metropolis of London had not been the most exciting period of her life. There she was, a policewoman, a career that she had always wanted, and what did she have: a dingy bedsit; a man in the room next door who drank, and then snored, and then swore in his sleep. It had not been that many years before, and the memories were fresh. There had been a boyfriend back home in Liverpool, but she wanted a future; he wanted her at home and pregnant. Not that she did not want children, she did, but on her terms, and with Bob Marshall. It had not always been that way. Before Bob Marshall, she had been career-driven, probably a workaholic, but he had brought out maternal feelings in her.

  Keith Greenstreet had been a policeman longer than Sara had drawn breath; his days with the police force were rapidly coming to an end. In the office, he would talk about how much he looked forward to the day he could hand in his badge and devote himself to personal pursuits. It was a defence mechanism on Keith’s part: he had no personal pursuits, other than the occasional drink, no friends, no family other than his wife. Their marriage had been childless, not because he and his wife had not wanted children, they did, but that was how it had turned out. They had tried in the early years, but when it was clear that no children were to result, their lovemaking became infrequent; no more than the passionless coupling of two sad people, not happy with each other, unable to be apart.

  Sean O’Riordan saw life differently. He was in his mid-twenties, a period in anyone’s life when they are full of optimism and derring-do. To him, life offered endless opportunities, and he was a person who saw the world brightly, even at six in the morning. Apart from his police duties, he was studying for a Master’s degree. He already had a Bachelor’s, but it would not suffice if he wanted to become a detective superintendent.

  ‘So, what’s the plan?’ Keith asked.

  ‘The ring that you recovered. What does it tell us?’ Sara asked. Keith had placed it on the table; it was still in the plastic evidence bag.

  ‘Only that it belonged to Ingrid Bentham. As I said yesterday, there is an engraving on the inside.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘Not much, certainly not an address as to where to send it in the case of loss.’

  ‘Apart from that.’

  ‘“With love, M”. That’s all.’

  ‘So, unless we can tie it in, it doesn’t give us very much,’ Sara said.

  ‘You know it does. What did they teach you at police training college? Every little piece of information helps, even when it seems irrelevant,’ Keith said. He immediately regretted the put-down of a fellow DI. He had to admit that Sara was handling their latest case with the required professionalism. He would apologise later.

  Sara chose to ignore his comment. ‘What have we done to find Ingrid Bentham?’

  ‘The usual,’ Keith replied. ‘Description out to all police departments, watching the airports, railway and bus stations for the woman. She’ll not be easy to spot.’

  ‘Why do you say that, DI?’ Sean asked.

  ‘You’ve seen her picture?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell me, what did you see?’ Keith asked.

  ‘An attractive blonde woman, twenty-four to twenty-six years of age, medium height, slim.’

  ‘No distinguishing features, tattoos, scars?’

  ‘None,’ Sean replied.

  ‘Keith’s right,’ Sara said. ‘Statistically, Ingrid Bentham fits the norm for at least half the white females in this country; at least in that age group.’

  ‘Apart from the hair colour,’ Sean said.

  ‘Bottle of hair colouring will sort that out soon enough,’ Keith said.

  ‘Sean, what can you tell us about the recording you recovered?’ Sara asked.

  ‘Northern accent, nothing more, but the recording is clear enough. I’ll get someone to analyse it today.’

  ‘Fine. Keith, can you concentrate on the ring. Long shot I know, but it may help. See if you can ascertain where the ring was purchased.’

  ‘Police databases?’ Keith asked.

  ‘It’s always a possibility. This woman’s deranged. We need to find her soon,’ Sara said.

  ‘Why do you think that, guv?’ Sean asked.

  ‘She murders Gregory Chalmers, almost kills his wife. Then she showers, cleans herself up, dresses in some of Stephanie Chalmers’ clothes and walks out of the door.’

  ‘And then she returns to her apartment, packs her belongings and leaves,’ Keith added.

  ‘Not the act of a normal person,’ Sean conceded.

  ‘Correct. Most people, if they kill someone in anger, will panic, rush out of the door, leave clues as to where they are, but with this woman, nothing. It’s as if she knew what she was doing; as if she had killed before,’ Sara said.

  ‘The number 2,’ Keith said.

  ‘It’s a possibility.’

  ‘That’s more important than the ring,’ Sean said.

  ‘The ring is still important. More pieces of the puzzle,’ Sara said.

  Chapter 5

  Behind the scenes, a full department was focussing on the death of Gregory Chalmers. People were collating information, preparing cases for the prosecution, filing the evidence, and looking for the prime suspect.

  Bob Marshall had complete faith in Sara to handle the case, although his superiors were not so sure. As usual, the media were speculating, especially the more scurrilous. Apparently, they had found out about the mysterious blonde, the ‘blonde in the bed’ as she was referred to. Sara realised that information could have only come
from the aggrieved wife, now a widow, but why?

  Nobody appreciated their dirty laundry being hung out in public, and the most scurrilous rag was emblazoned with headlines alluding to the unusual arrangement in the Chalmers’ household, speculating as to whether it was a lovers’ tryst, whether all three enjoyed the bed together, and if the children were safe in the house of Stephanie Chalmers.

  Unfortunately, Sara realised, if you want irresponsible reporting, then the newspapers in the United Kingdom were supreme.

  Stephanie Chalmers was sitting up in bed when Sara entered her room at the hospital. ‘Are you better?’ Sara asked, realising that it was not the most appropriate question considering that her husband had just been murdered. Still, the woman had smiled when she arrived. Around the room, there was a collection of ‘get well soon’ cards, and someone had sent flowers.

  ‘Fine, although I’m probably doped up on drugs,’ Stephanie said.

  ‘I was here the other day.’

  ‘I remember. Detective Inspector Stanforth, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sara Stanforth, as you say. Are you able to answer any more questions?’

  ‘I don’t want to remember, but I suppose I must.’

  ‘Tell me about your relationship with your husband.’

  ‘Gregory was a good man, a good father, but…’

  ‘Why the hesitancy?’

  ‘He couldn’t help himself.’

  ‘Women?’

  ‘Not often, but every month or so there would be the signs. The late nights, the smell of perfume, the dash for a quick shower to wash off the evidence – a woman knows.’

  Stephanie Chalmers held a handkerchief to her eyes and wiped away the tears. Sara could see that she had been fond of the man, even if his behaviour on occasions had been unforgivable.