Dead to Me

by Pamela Murray

  ‘Or, someone we don’t even know about yet!’

  ‘Go on, just make it worse than it already is!’ she lightly chided, although this was no joking matter. They now had four possible suspects, more perhaps that they didn’t know about, so the sooner they started an in-depth look into all of their backgrounds the better.

  Following the conversation with Dr Adamson, Burton and Fielding returned to the incident room to start the investigation in earnest, based upon Maria Turnbull’s death now being confirmed as a suspicious one. At least they now knew that they had a case to investigate. While Fielding was telephoning John Turnbull’s mother to find out both his and his late wife’s occupations, Burton gathered the team together to give them their instructions. DC Jack Summers was to find out what he could about the victim’s husband, and the others were to look into the backgrounds of each of her friends.

  ‘Well, as the rest of the team are looking into the girlfriends and the husband, let’s start on Madame Ortiz ourselves,’ Burton said to his partner. ‘We need to find out every little thing about her, where she’s from, who she knows, absolutely everything.’

  Burton was going all out on this one, not that he didn’t go all out on every case that they were handed. He was relentless when he was on the job, like a dog with a tasty bone, gnawing at it until there was nothing left to glean from it. It was one of the things Fielding loved about him, his dedication and passion for the police force. His diligence was like no other. She’d miss the professional work partnership with him once he was promoted, but she still had the personal side of him. As things between them had progressed that well, they were even starting to talk about buying a property of their own instead of keeping on their separate places. Fielding for one had no reservations whatsoever about that. The idea of starting afresh with the man she loved was very welcome, very welcome indeed.

  Madame Ortiz, or Marilyn Parkinson, was born in Leeds in 1979. They discovered that her mother and grandmother, as Marilyn had mentioned, were also well-known in the astrological world, and in the realm of fortune telling. Marilyn’s mother had had a weekly horoscope column in one of the national newspapers. Her grandmother, who had Romany connections with ancestors hailing from western Europe, had worked with one of the largest travelling carnivals in the United States before meeting an Englishman on holiday who swept her off her feet and brought her back to his native country to start life afresh. So, the path to follow in the footsteps of her ancestors had, it seemed, already been set out for Marilyn Parkinson a long time ago. Whether any of them had the supposed gift was anyone’s guess, but they seemed to have made quite a name, and an income, for themselves over the years. As Burton himself knew, Tarot reading was an art and not just a mysterious supernatural bestowment, meaning that it was a skill rather than something other-worldly. Fielding was of the same opinion as him. She’d never experienced anything mysterious herself, so until the time she did (if ever) then she’d continue to be a sceptic like her partner. Proof was everything to both of them, especially in their line of work, so it was natural that this would also progress to their life outside of it.

  ‘She seems to have a large public following,’ Burton declared, after viewing her Facebook and Twitter accounts. ‘I’m not surprised she likes to keep her privacy to herself though.’

  He’d just read a particularly derisive comment from a supposed fan, calling her out as a ‘fraud and a charlatan.’ That was the thing about social media, anybody could hide behind a keyboard and say whatever they liked, especially hurtful and ill-informed things. Cyber bullying was prevalent, especially where so-called celebrities were concerned, and Burton found that to be a heinous and malevolent crime in itself – not that he was overly fond of celebrities, but, even so, crime was crime no matter where and how it reared its ugly head, and at whom.

  Ms Parkinson was now at the peak of her career, and her ‘talents’ were sought after by the rich and famous as well as everyday folk. Business was indeed booming. So why, if that were the case, did she stay in a house on the outskirts of Manchester when she could be lording it up anywhere she chose? That question was answered in a magazine article that Burton also found in his online search. Her mother had been born in a village nearby, and still lived there. Despite writing for a big London newspaper, and living down there for quite some time during her own career as an astrologer, her roots were and always would be in the Midlands place of her birth. In that case, Burton considered it to be an understandable reason to stay put. So that question had been easily answered to his satisfaction.

  Burton also found it hard to find any named romantic partners during the course of his research, which to him seemed very unusual. The woman was attractive, there was no disputing that, with or without her elaborate professional make-up, so not to be linked to anyone who moved in the same kind of circles as she did appeared odd. Unless, of course, as she said, she wished to retain her privacy, so had made sure that no photographers had ever taken shots of her with anyone in particular which, if she was seeing someone, had to be a difficult thing to maintain. But, again, when he and Fielding had visited her home, the only other living creature there appeared to be her faithful dog, and there were no signs of anyone other than herself living in the house. No tell-tale signs of male occupancy, nothing. Burton considered the woman to be a bit of an enigma.

  ‘I hope the rest of the team are having more luck!’ Fielding exclaimed as she sat back in her seat. They’d been scrolling through pages and pages for hours and her eyes were becoming tired. ‘I don’t know about you, but I need a coffee.’

  At the mention of his favourite beverage, Burton was up out of his seat and grabbing his coat before Fielding had even moved an inch.

  ‘Come on then!’ he teased, ‘I thought you said that you were thirsty?’

  Fielding threw a notebook at him, which he successfully managed to dodge. It landed with a thud on the floor a few feet away from him.

  ***

  When they arrived back at the station it looked like all hell had broken loose, with everyone actively moving around.

  ‘We’ve just had a call about a murder,’ Summers said at the same time as DCI Ambleton walked into the room.

  ‘I think your team should go and attend this one,’ Ambleton said, already up to speed with what was going on.

  ‘Why, what’s happened?’ a stunned Fielding asked.

  ‘A body of a man has just been found in the city centre, and there was an astrological sign left on the body.’

  ‘But we can’t speculate that this is connected in any way, surely?’ Burton observed.

  ‘Maybe not,’ Ambleton conceded, ‘but in light of things it seems to be an odd coincidence, doesn’t it? Worth checking out, I think. Send Fielding and Summers out on this one Joe, if you don’t mind, as I’d like to have a word with you in my office.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  The CSI team and Dr Frank Collinson, who was on-call, were already on the scene when Fielding and Summers arrived at the rear of the building in the city centre. Fielding had met him once before, a few months back, and was surprised that he remembered her.

  ‘Nice to see you again,’ Collinson said through his face mask as they approached. He handed them both a pair of nitrile gloves, which they slipped on.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d remember me,’ Fielding said.

  ‘Never forget a good detective,’ he laughed, pulling down his face mask so that he could talk more clearly. ‘Not your usual partner I see?’

  ‘No, this is DC Jack Summers, soon to be my full-time partner when DI Burton is promoted to DCI.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I heard that he was taking over from Elizabeth Ambleton. Give him my best, won’t you?’

  ‘I certainly will. So, what have we got?’ She looked down at the body on the ground. There had been no attempt by the killer to hide him, as he was lying out in the open behind one of the high street offices.

  ‘Well, as you can see, he’s been
shot in the heart with an arrow. Good shot, by the look of it; not so good for the poor soul it penetrated however. I would say, from the angle of entry, that whoever took aim and fired was left-handed.’

  ‘Why do you think that then?’ DC Summers asked, scrutinising the entry point a little closer.

  Dr Collinson replaced his mask over his mouth and nose and crouched down beside the body. ‘If you look at the angle of the entry here,’ he pointed to where the shaft could be seen coming out of the man’s chest, ‘it’s angled slightly towards the right, meaning that whoever did this was aiming from the left.’

  ‘And if the person had been right-handed then it would have been the opposite,’ Summers concluded.

  ‘Precisely.’ The pathologist stood up and pulled down his mask again.

  ‘First reports say that there was a card on the body with some kind of astrological significance?’ Fielding asked.

  ‘Yes, although I wouldn’t call it a card; it was more a slip of paper. But I did recognise what was on it as an astrological symbol, although I have to say I’m not exactly sure which one it is. The CSI team have bagged it up; do you want to take a look at it?’

  ‘No, that’s all right for now,’ she said. ‘I’ll see it when they’ve sent everything through to us. To be honest, I wouldn’t know what it would be either. Would you, Jack?’

  ‘No, that’s not my kind of thing I’m afraid,’ Summers admitted. ‘I only know that I’m a Leo, but that’s the end of it.’

  ‘About the same here!’ Fielding agreed with him. ‘Do we know who he is, doctor?’

  Rather surprisingly, Collinson told her that he did.

  ‘And it wasn’t through any kind of astrological intervention,’ he smiled. ‘The gentleman’s name is Harry York, and this is the rear of the office where he works.’

  ‘Who found him?’ Fielding asked looking around her. This wasn’t the place to hide a body, therefore whoever did it wanted it to be found, and quickly.

  ‘One of his co-workers, coming back from a lunch break. As you can imagine, she’s pretty shook up about it.’

  ‘We’ll need to have a word with her,’ Fielding said.

  Summers nodded.

  ‘Okay, thank you doctor,’ she said, eyes on Collinson. ‘So, would you say the cause of death is self-explanatory then?’

  ‘I think I can say that he very likely died from the arrow but, as you know, things are often not quite as they seem. He could have been dead already when the arrow entered his body, but by the look of the blood loss around the wound I don’t think that’s likely as he’s bled out quite a lot. And there’s quite a bit of blood on the ground too. However, he may have been drugged or poisoned beforehand. We will find out at the autopsy. If you like, you can leave this part of it entirely to me, and I will let you know the results.’

  Fielding was happy for that so she agreed to his kind offer. She smiled to herself, as she could almost hear Burton tut-tutting at her for dodging an autopsy already, followed by: Just wait until you’re an inspector, you’ll have to go to them all then!

  ***

  Leaving Dr Collinson and the CSI team to finish off, Fielding and Summers paid a visit to the person who had discovered Harry York’s body in the back alley.

  The atmosphere inside the estate agent’s office was one of shock and sombre disbelief. Announcing themselves as they entered, the detectives were directed upstairs to the staff room and found a distraught Angela Patterson being consoled by two people, a man and a woman. The two introduced themselves as the branch manager and his assistant office manager. Angela, they explained, was one of the company’s two secretaries.

  Sitting down beside the tearful woman, Fielding introduced herself and asked if she felt she could speak to her about her discovery. The woman looked at her and slowly nodded. From the look of her it had hit her hard, and Fielding didn’t wish to upset her any more than she already was.

  ‘Can you tell me if you saw anyone, or anyone passed by you as you were coming back into work?’ Fielding spoke as softly as she could.

  ‘No . . . nothing,’ Angela stumbled with her words. ‘Just Harry . . . lying there . . . with that arrow . . .’

  ‘It’s okay; you’re doing all right,’ Fielding assured her, trying to make her feel at ease. ‘And what time was this?’

  ‘About five to one. It must have been that as I was due back in on the hour.’

  ‘Okay, that’s fine, that’s fine. Thank you, and I’m so very sorry for your loss. All of you,’ she added, looking towards the other two people in the room.

  Rising from her seat she asked the branch manager if she could have a word with him in private.

  ‘I know it’s a difficult time,’ she said when they were alone in the corridor, ‘but I have to ask, did Mr York have any enemies that you know of?’

  ‘No, not at all!’ the manager spluttered. ‘He’s the nicest man you could hope to meet.’

  ‘And what exactly was his role here?’

  ‘He deals with housing contracts, and also setting up tenancy agreements for landlords.’

  ‘Was there any friction at all between him and the clients, any disagreements or anything like that?’

  Again, the manager said not. ‘He’s always good with everyone, a real people person, who will go the extra mile to help. Everybody thought the world of him, staff and customers alike. I just can’t imagine why anyone would want to do something like this to him; he’d never harm a soul.’

  ‘And his home life, was everything okay there?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. They couldn’t be happier . . .’ Then he stopped at the mention of the man’s family. ‘Has anybody told his wife; should I ring her and tell her?’

  ‘We’ll take care of that, sir, you won’t have to do it,’ Fielding assured him, asking for his deceased colleague’s home address. She also noted that the manager was still referring to his colleague in the present tense, indicating that the full fact of the matter hadn’t fully sunk in yet.

  As there didn’t appear to be any work-related reason why Harry York had been targeted at his place of employment, it would mean taking into consideration his background outside of it. Perhaps his home life was fine, as the manager had stressed, but perhaps it wasn’t, and she would task one of the team with looking into that.

  CHAPTER TEN

  By the time the detectives returned back to the station, the evidence board was almost filled. The team had been busy; they’d worked well and quickly in their absence, with photographs of the suspects and information about their places of work pinned up. Proving what Fielding already knew, that the team were more than capable of carrying on by themselves in the absence of either herself or Joe Burton. Much of what they’d found had been taken from social media sites, which was an easily available place to obtain such information. For once, Fielding considered that such a public display of personal information was welcome. She never liked the whole social media thing, believing, like Burton, that it was open house for anyone wishing to obtain another person’s identity or in extreme cases, to scam others for financial gain.

  ‘You’ve all been busy!’ Fielding said to DC Jane Francis, who was still positioned at the board adding one more item to the many that were already there.

  ‘Yes,’ she chirped, pleased with all their efforts, ‘we’ve all been lucky with what we’ve found so far.’

  ‘I can see,’ Fielding complemented her as she looked around for Burton.

  ‘Where’s the DI?’ she asked.

  ‘Still with DCI Ambleton. They both went upstairs to her office as soon as you two left.’

  ‘Wonder what they’re talking about?’ Fielding pondered.

  ‘No idea. The DI told us just to carry on until either he or you returned first.’

  ‘Okay, thanks Jane.’

  ‘No problem.’

  While she was waiting for Burton, Fielding examined the board. As well as the dead woman herself, on it w
ere the photographs of Maria Turnbull’s husband, her three friends, and Marilyn Parkinson, aka Madame Ortiz. Underneath each was details of their present occupation and place of work.

  As she scanned over it, she wasn’t really surprised by the fact that the outspoken Caroline Watkins was a solicitor; it explained her way with words and her apparent love of using them. The other two friends worked in the Civil Service, both holding positions as Administration Officers in the Ministry of Justice in Salford. John Turnbull, the husband, was employed as an architect in a prestigious company in Portland Street. It was noted that it was recognised as one of the finest in Manchester, having received a plethora of awards and local contracts over the years. And as for Maria, she was a secondary school teacher. So, at first glance, it didn’t appear that any of them would have any specialised knowledge about the poison digitalis.

  However, Fielding then recalled that one of the girlfriends, Barbara McKay, had said she’d worked as a medical secretary at some point before her current job; she’d have indirect knowledge of it, surely. She must remember to add that piece of information to the board, beneath what was already there. But then again, the internet was a wonderful source of information, sometimes too wonderful, and anyone could find out about absolutely anything they wanted.

  The next big question was, who held a grudge against Maria Turnbull, and why? And now, apart from this, there was another death that could very well be connected to the puzzle, that of the estate agent Harry York. How did he fit into this? She needed to speak to Burton to get his take on it all.

  ‘So, what about Harry York?’ Summers asked, ‘Should I start looking into his background as well?’

  ‘Yes, if you can,’ she instructed him. ‘From all accounts it sounds as if he was well-liked, but somebody evidently didn’t feel that way.’

  Fielding then turned back to Jane Francis. ‘Keep working on what we have so far,’ she said, ‘I need to have a word with Burton, but I think he’ll probably tell us to go and speak to the people all the suspects work with, except Marilyn Parkinson that is, as she’s self-employed.’