Never to Dead to Talk (Detective Inspector Burgess Series)

by Middleton, Deborah

As Burgess and Pamela pulled into the driveway in the Point Shares neighborhood, the gates swung open as if on cue. Mrs. Flood was evidently awaiting their arrival. Burgess had instructed Pamela to watch Mrs. Flood like a hawk and then give him her impressions.

  A trim, well-groomed blonde lady greeted them at the door. If she had been crying, there certainly was no evidence. Her makeup and hair were immaculate, the charcoal-grey pants and matching long sweater appropriately sober. The only blight to her composure was an anxious fingering of a string of pale grey pearls at her throat. Burgess made the introductions and apologized for intruding on her at such a sad time.

  “I thought the police had everything they need?” Her voice had a tinge of defensiveness or was it fear? Burgess was unable to tell.

  “It’s just routine, Mrs. Flood. We need to tie up a few loose ends to ensure we have dotted every ‘i’ and crossed every ‘t’.”

  “Oh, I see. Won’t you sit down?”

  “Well, actually, I wonder if you would be so kind as to show me your late husband’s study.”

  “Why, of course. Come this way.”

  They followed her down a sunlit corridor to a tastefully appointed home office with views of the garden and swimming pool beyond. Burgess took in the terracotta walls, the set of glass-fronted antique bookcases, the taupe and burned orange Burberry style striped curtains tied back with contrasting tassels. For her part, Pamela was entranced. What a beautiful room, full of character and masculine charm. She had only seen this kind of wealth, displayed in such an understated yet opulent manner, in the pages of magazines. The sun streamed into the room, illuminating the dust motes in the air and accentuating the warmth of the Mediterranean color of the walls. It was hard to believe someone had died here in the early hours of that morning.

  Burgess turned to Mrs. Flood, who stood in the doorway, as if hesitant to enter. “May I look in his desk?”

  “Of course” She paused. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll go and make some coffee.” Turning around abruptly, she left them. Burgess and Pamela exchanged glances.

  “I’ll take the desk and you have a look in the filing cabinet over there.” Burgess could not believe their luck - nobody to watch them. They would have to move fast.

  He unlocked the main drawer, noting the fancy tassel on the end of the key and looked specifically for a fountain pen with black ink. The note had been written in black, yet the pens in the pen set on the desk contained blue ink, as did the inkwell. He remembered that his father, now a retired lawyer, had always used blue ink to sign documents. That way, he had patiently explained to his son, it was easier to spot an original. In the drawer, there were no fountain pens, just a couple of ballpoints, a few pencils and the usual assortment of paperclips, erasers, pencil sharpener and staple remover. He took out his camera from his pocket and snapped a picture. He also took a picture of the relatively unused blotter. Had it been recently changed? He looked behind the top sheet and gently teased out another used sheet. It was covered in blotted writing, mostly in blue ink but a few things were also in black. Burgess placed it rolled up in an evidence bag and asked Pamela to place it in her handbag. Pamela looked nonplussed.

  “Just humor me on this one,” he said with a wink.

  In the larger drawers, he noted several files. Nothing caught his attention, however. They seemed to relate more to household issues, such as bank accounts, insurance, car repairs, gardeners and swimming pool cleaners. A thought crossed his mind and he opened the file on insurance. Leafing through it, he suddenly stopped.

  “Pamela, have a look at this.” Pamela was immediately by his side.

  “Look, Mrs. Flood is diabetic. Doesn’t that mean she needs insulin?”

  “It depends on how badly diabetic she is. Some people just need pills and a good diet, others need injections and some actually need a surgically implanted pump.”

  “How do you know so much about this?”

  “My aunt. She’s diabetic… lost a foot last year. They had to remove it. She’s pretty stoic about it, though. I sometimes used to go with her to the diabetes clinic over at King Edward’s.”

  “Have a look at this. What do you think?”

  “Judging from these records, it looks as if Mrs. Flood needs to inject herself… wow, that’s significant.”

  “Pamela, check that stationery in the printer and any he might have in his drawers. I want to see if it jibes with the suicide note.”

  “Well, he’s got fancy heavyweight grey stationery with his name and address engraved on it. Then there’s the regular white printer paper for anything else. I’ll put a sample of both in my bag.”

  They heard steps coming back along the corridor and moved away from the desk.

  “Have you found anything? Would you like some coffee?”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Flood. A coffee would be lovely.” Burgess and Pamela made their way towards the living room where Mrs. Flood had prepared a tray of coffee and oatmeal cookies.

  “What a beautiful home you have, Mrs. Flood.” Pamela decided to go on a charm offensive.

  “Yes, it belonged to my family. I inherited it ten years ago when my mother passed away. She is the one responsible for the wonderful garden. I just dabble at gardening but it does give me a lot of pleasure.”

  Burgess took an oatmeal cookie and offered one to Mrs. Flood.

  “No thank you. I must watch… I must watch my weight.”

  Were you going to admit that you were diabetic? Burgess tried to keep his face impassive, watching Mrs. Flood as she chatted with Pamela and noting that her fingers all the while toyed with her necklace. Was she normally this ramrod straight or was that a sign of tension? The entire time he was there, Burgess had the impression of a cobra rearing up before an attack. Was that being uncharitable? No, this lady was a consummate actress… and ice-cold. He was not sure he could prove it but he was convinced, even more now than before he had met her, that this woman had killed her husband. He could not wait to finish his coffee and compare notes with Pamela.

  As they made their way back to the car and were safely out of earshot, Burgess turned to his colleague. “So, what do you make of her?”

  “If you want my opinion, that is one very angry woman. Whether she’s angry because her husband killed himself and now people at the Mid Ocean or Coral Beach Club will pity her or whether she’s angry about something else, I’m just not sure. One thing is for sure, she is one tightly controlled lady. I got the impression of barely reined in, polite rage.”

  “Pamela, you’re amazing.” Burgess beamed.

  CHAPTER 14

  Meanwhile, at the Russian’s home, the investigation continued. De Souza sat in the kitchen interviewing Mr. Tatem, the gardener, who came once every two weeks to mow the lawn, trim the hedges and weed the herbaceous borders. He was dressed in his work-clothes with a large, sweat-stained and frayed straw hat, which he insisted on wearing even inside the house. With only his two upper and two lower canine teeth remaining, De Souza had the impression that if the man yawned, he would be able to see clear down to his heart. The poor man’s dental deficiencies, coupled with his leathery, weather-beaten skin, made him look twenty years older than his stated age of 60. De Souza felt like he was interviewing a kindly scarecrow. He reflected, however, that he was definitely not in Kansas anymore.

  The gardener was in full swing, drawing out his vowels and substituting his v’s for w’s and vice versa, in true Bermudian form. “Um tellin’ you - he pronounced it ‘tahlin’ - there was some veird stuff goin’ on here sometimes.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Vell, over by de pool. Sometimes there were some young garls hangin’ out in der bikinis. Um told that at de veekends there were some vild parties goin’ on wiv a lotta older men.”

  “Do you know that for sure?” De Souza was trying not to sound impatient. Was this just a waste of time?

  “Vell, dat’s what I heard… and then, one day I came in to vork and they had moved de compost heap. Co
uldna believe my eyes. De guy who is de, um um, bodyguard, vell, he tole me not to touch it… just to add more grass and stuff to it. So I did.”

  De Souza was suddenly alert. He tried to keep the excitement out of his voice and asked casually, “So where is this compost heap now?”

  “Over thar, near to de pump house for de pool. Come on, I’ll show you.”

  De Souza followed the old guy out. He flipped open his cell phone, dialled the office and got Mrs. Ming. She put him straight through to Archie.

  “Archie, I think we may have something over at the house. Could we get Forensics over here with shovels or even a backhoe?”

  “Whoa! Sure thing. I’ll get right onto it.”

  De Souza turned back to the gardener. “So, Mr. Tatem, about when did you say this compost heap was moved?”

  “Oh, I’d say about shree or four veeks ago.”

  De Souza made a note in his book. Three to four weeks ago, the compost heap had been moved. The Bambases had been hired just over two weeks ago to replace the former housekeeper. What had gone on about a month ago? He wondered if Skinner might have anything on those DVDs.

  He made another call to the station. This time, Mrs. Ming put him through to Skinner.

  “Skinner, De Souza here. I’m over at the Russian’s house. Do you have any DVDs dated around three weeks to a month ago? You do? Just a hunch but you might want to start looking at those first.”

  “Thanks. I’ll do that. What am I looking for?”

  “Dunno. I just think something significant may have happened, which set into motion a chain of events ending in the murders of the new housekeepers.”

  “Wow. I’ll start looking right away.”

  “Thanks. Let me know how it goes.” De Souza flipped open his cell phone to report to Burgess. He knew it was just a hunch but it felt right. He knew Burgess would listen to him. His boss believed in hunches too.

  CHAPTER 15

  Alexeev had taken his private jet and flown to his dacha on the Black Sea. He had not called the lieutenant colonel of the Moscow Prefecture, preferring to go on the internet to check the headlines of the Bermuda Gazette. What he saw filled him with trepidation. Not only had someone killed and tortured his new housekeepers but the Bermuda police were crawling all over his house. Apparently, they had discovered the basement. He knew his homemade adult movies would cause a huge scandal. He had several prominent Bermudians on film in extremely compromising circumstances and had kept them as insurance, should he ever need a favor. Alexeev had grown up hard in the slums of Vychino in East Moscow. He knew exactly how the game was played. He was pretty certain the police would figure out that a couple of the girls were underage. Were they smart enough, however, to recognize a real snuff movie when they saw it? He could always argue his directing skills could make it all seem so real…

  Even though it was May, it was still chilly and he sat with a glass of Absolut vodka in front of a roaring fire. He loved his dacha. He had furnished it with Russian country furniture, its armoires and dressers painted in bright colors with hunting scenes. In fact, he commissioned it to be decorated with his own vision of what a Russian hunting lodge should look like, complete with antlers on the walls, leather sofas and rag rugs. It was more like Russian folklore meets Hollywood but he did not care.

  He looked up as his bodyguard came into the room.

  “Why do you bathe in that cologne? I can smell you even before I see you.”

  “Girls like it.” Grigory was not one for long sentences.

  The film director smiled thinly. “What have you discovered about the Bermuda situation?” Alexeev had asked his bodyguard to surf the internet, his own English being limited more to small talk and issues regarding film production.

  “It’s not good news.”

  The fear lodged in the pit of the director’s stomach was genuine. He kept silent as the younger man continued.

  “The house was completely ransacked but it was the Bermuda police who found the basement. I saw footage of their local news showing them taking out DVDs, camera equipment and the monitors. I assume they’re from the basement. Sure looked like it anyway.”

  “That means that, by now, they should have all the footage. That’s not good. I wonder how long before they find the special films. I’m hoping they aren’t smart enough to think they’re real. Maybe they’ll just think they’re fake.”

  “Well, one thing’s for sure. It won’t be long before they start looking for us.”

  “The Bermuda police are the least of our worries. I want to know who killed the new housekeepers and why they tortured the husband. What the hell is going on? It can’t be a random killing and it doesn’t sound like anything of value was lifted from the house. What do you make of that? I think we need to sit down and think very hard about this. I know I have enemies in the business world and our little side venture has probably not endeared us to some of the local big wheels.”

  “Oh, talking of big wheels, that’s the other piece of bad news. Your neighbor, the lawyer, the one we had blackmailed with the film of him and that young girl… well he’s committed suicide.”

  “What! Why did you take so long to tell me? Are you nuts? This has all got to be connected. What the fuck is going on?” Alexeev pounded his fist on the carved wooden chest that served as a coffee table. Now he was really alarmed. He could feel perspiration begin to bead on his forehead. “Did anything about the blackmail come out in the Bermuda papers?”

  The bodyguard walked to the well-stocked bar and refilled his boss’ glass of Absolut, at the same time pouring himself a Glenfiddich. Alexeev took the glass gratefully and gulped it like a man dying of thirst. The heavyset young man sat opposite him in an armchair near the crackling fire, leaning forward towards the warmth, arms on his knees, both hands cradling his whisky and contemplating the irony of it all. This room was so comfortable and the atmosphere so cheerful, that it was hard to believe they were talking about murder, blackmail and torture.

  “Nothing yet but I imagine it’s only a question of time. What do you think we should do next?”

  The Russian millionaire shifted his bulk in the armchair, recrossing his legs. “I don’t know. I think for the moment the best place for us is here until we have a better idea who is at the bottom of this. Make sure the security cameras are in place and engage a couple of extra security guards to patrol the grounds. The cook and cleaners are old employees. I have no worries about them. I’ll tell them that I want the fact I’m here to remain confidential; paparazzi and all that. I’ll promise them a bonus to keep quiet. That usually works.”

  “Okay, I’ll hire some more muscle … just in case.”

  “And Grigory?”

  “Yes?” This was the first time his boss had called him by his first name. He felt a shift in the atmosphere in the room.

  “We need to keep our eyes open. I think something serious is going on and I don’t like any of it.” The film director held his gaze for a moment, wanting to drive home the point.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of things.” Was it his impression or had the relationship between them subtly changed?

  CHAPTER 16

  Pamela was enjoying Skinner’s embarrassment as she walked into his office.

  “It’s not as if you’re watching these movies for fun,” she reassured him.

  “I know but it must be years of male guilt that’s now almost built into the genes, that’s coming out.” Skinner had taken De Souza at his word and was working his way through the most recent adult DVDs.

  “Wait a minute. Isn’t that the Minister for Information?” Pamela was shocked. There he was, in all his glory, fondling the naked buttocks of a very pretty and seemingly rather young blonde, as they cavorted with two other couples in the pool. “And there’s our boy Flood. Look. He’s over there sitting on the diving board. Ooh. That’s not a pretty sight.”

  “These two girls…” Skinner pointed to two laughing brown-skinned girls. “They seem to be local.
The other two have foreign accents; Eastern European perhaps?”

  “Well.” Pamela brushed back a stray lock of hair from her forehead. “The owner’s a Russian, so maybe they’re some Russian starlets he knows from his casting couch. The local girls could also be wannabe film stars or maybe even prostitutes. They sure look a lot more professional … and older. What do you think?”

  “Yeah, you have a point. I wonder if we should get someone from Vice up here to have a look. Maybe they can identify them.”

  “Great idea. Let me make a call.”

  Skinner breathed a sigh of relief as Pamela left. He then clicked another button and went back to watching a different film that had him very worried. There, straddling the naked body of the younger of the blonde girls was a large, heavily muscled man with a mane of curly black hair. The camera panned in on her face and, even to Skinner, he could tell from the dilated pupils that she was high on something. The sight disgusted him. He fast forwarded the scene so that at least he did not have to listen to the girl’s staged cries of ecstasy. As he clicked back on to the play button, he was horrified to hear that this time the girl sounded more as if she were in pain. Her body bucked in rhythm to the brutal thrusting of her on-screen lover. Skinner watched, transfixed, as the man produced a clear plastic bag. The girl seemed not to be disturbed by the sight of this - it had Skinner’s stomach in knots – and she trustingly allowed him to place it over her head. Oh God, it’s one of those kinky sex ploys. She’s going to have an enhanced orgasm because she’s oxygen deprived. The bag inflated and deflated in time with her breathing. Skinner began to feel nauseous. He knew he had no choice but to continue observing, yet he experienced such a sense of foreboding. How could she be so stupid as to allow herself to play these games? He watched with his heart in his mouth as the scene progressed. At first, he thought the cries and movements of the girl might have been somewhat exaggerated for the sake of the camera but then, as he watched, the man suddenly stretched the plastic tightly over her face and mouth. Skinner knew the sight of her profile pressing against the plastic and the ineffectual clawing of her small hands as she tried to remove it, would be forever etched in his consciousness. Surely this was real? The man laughed as she struggled and thrashed trying to remove the bag. After what seemed like an eternity to Skinner, her movements lost their intensity and eventually she lay motionless. The man removed the bag from her head to reveal two sky-blue staring eyes. The cameraman obligingly panned in for a close-up of her face. Choking, Skinner got out of his chair and ran to the bathroom. Pamela looked up in alarm from her desk as he rushed past. She heard his retching from where she sat - he had not even had time to close the door. What the hell had just happened?