Basic Element: A dark gipping detective thriller (Crane and Anderson Book 2)

by Wendy Cartmell

  Looking at her watch she could see it was only seven o’clock and the empty night stretched before her. Tim was away, holed up in a hotel somewhere, no doubt in his room drinking the mini bar dry, or downstairs laughing and chatting with his fellow academics. She’d never been as clever as her husband and because she’d been a stay at home mum she’d been left with no real skills, now their two children had grown up and left home. In the past she’d tried charity work but found the other women to be self-absorbed bitches, more concerned with themselves than the charities they were supposed to be helping. Lately she’d been applying for jobs, but hadn’t yet got an interview, no doubt because of her age and lack of experience. Helping out in the Red Cross charity shop obviously wasn’t sufficient for today’s picky employers.

  Feeling lonely, she reached for the phone to call someone. Anyone. She tried Tim, but his phone was switched off. Neither of her sons answered, the calls just ringing and ringing until she gave up. So much for her husband and sons keeping her company.

  She could call a friend, she supposed. But thinking about it, she wasn’t actually sure that she had any. None that she could call about the disquiet that was settling over her, at any rate. Not Jo from next door, nor Kevin and Clive on the other side. No, this was far too personal a problem rattling around in her brain.

  She finished her tour of the house and put the television back on, just for background noise more than anything. Company. It was still on the news channel and so once again she heard the story of Sally who had been killed in Aldershot.

  She stilled with the TV remote in her hand. Aldershot? It couldn’t be. No, it wasn’t possible. Was it? She moved over to the bureau, a relic from her parents she had been too sentimental to discard and opening the lid, she rummaged in the drawers. She was sure she’d put the details of Tim’s conference in there somewhere. Yes, there it was.

  Opening the envelope, she looked at the picture of the hotel on the front of the glossy brochure. The Mount – a country house hotel for the discerning client, it described itself as. Set in beautiful countryside, near to the towns of Aldershot and Farnborough.

  The brochure fluttered to the floor and her hands went to her neck again.

  That poor girl.

  Was it possible that her husband, Tim Dennison, Professor of Criminology at Reading University, had a dark secret only she knew about? If so, was it a secret he’d kill to keep?

  Ciaran

  Donna Price opened the hotel room door in response to his knock, far quicker than he thought she would.

  “Donna Price? I’m DC Ciaran Douglas, Hampshire Police.” As she looked confused he continued, “I’d like a word with you about your flat mate Sally. I’ve just got a few follow up questions.”

  “Oh, sorry, you weren’t who I was expecting. I’m waiting for a taxi to take me to the airport.” She indicated the hand luggage sized case she was holding.

  She wasn’t what he was expecting either. The girl’s make up was perfect, at least to Ciaran’s eyes. But then what did he know, being a bloke? All he knew was she looked beautiful; poised, polished, and every bit the air hostess she was. Her short dark pixie haircut suited her and her fitted blue uniform emphasised her slim figure. She explained he’d just caught her as she was soon to leave her hotel, ready to go to Heathrow to board a long haul flight to Australia. She invited him in and they stood rather awkwardly in the space at the end of the twin beds and between the dresser.

  “Um, had you known Sally long?” Ciaran managed to blurt out, studying her shoes instead of that amazing face, in his embarrassment.

  “I didn’t know her at all before she moved in,” said Donna. “That was about three years ago,” she added, as if anticipating his next question.

  “Did you get on well?”

  “Of course, otherwise she wouldn’t have stayed that long. The flat is mine, you see, she is, was, my lodger.” Her eyes filled with tears. “And she became a friend.” Donna wiped under each eye with her finger and blinked.

  “What about a boyfriend? Was there anyone special in her life?”

  Donna sat on the bed and shook her head slightly. “No, not that I know of. There were men she saw and she told me about them occasionally. But no ‘significant other’ if you know what I mean.”

  Ciaran nodded, but he wasn’t at all sure he did know what she meant. He’d never been anyone’s ‘significant other’ as far as he knew.

  “Was she a member of any dating sites? That’s how most people meet these days.”

  “Oh, so you have experience of that, do you?” Donna smiled and Ciaran blushed at the teasing remark.

  He was very much afraid she was getting the upper hand in this interview and it wasn’t supposed to be like that. So, after clearing his throat, he said in what he hoped was a solemn tone, “Please, Donna, this is really important.”

  “Sorry,” she said and smiled a little. “I didn’t mean to trivialise what’s happened. But no, I don’t know if she was on any dating sites. There are so many of them around these days, including the phone app thingy that tells you when someone you might like is near to your location and the ones where you have to skim through faces.” She picked at microscopic pieces of fluff on her skirt.

  “But you don’t know if she had signed up to any?”

  “No, sorry, she never mentioned it. You’ll have to check her phone and laptop.”

  “We would if we could find them. Do you know what devices she had?”

  “Sure, an iPhone and a MacBook. I think both of them were pretty old, but they worked well enough. Sally always said there was no point in upgrading them just so you could show them off and pretend like you had loads of money.”

  He thought about the brand new Samsung S6 Edge mobile phone he had in his pocket and had been desperate to upgrade to, and kept his opinion to himself.

  “Can you just write down any mobile numbers you have for her and also any email addresses?” he asked and handed her his notebook.

  “Didn’t you find those from papers and stuff in her room?”

  “We found a mobile phone bill, but email addresses aren’t necessarily logged anywhere and she could have had a pre-paid mobile we know nothing about.”

  “Oh, right, yes, of course,” she mumbled and scribbled away. Handing the notebook back she said, “I know this sounds awful, but do you know when I’ll be able to move back in?”

  “I’m afraid your flat is still a crime scene. It could be a week or so yet. Perhaps you could give me a ring when you get back?” he said and handed her his card.

  “Thanks,” she grinned as she took it. “I’ll make sure I do that.”

  Ciaran once again felt an irritating blush begin to form and to hide his embarrassment he messed about with putting his notebook away in his coat pocket. “If you think of anything that might help us in the meantime, please phone or send a message.”

  “Of course I will, but to be honest I’m trying not to think about it. I’ve lost a good friend, who died in my flat and I’ve got to come to terms with living there without her and with knowing what happened in her bedroom. And I’ve got to keep it together enough to go to work and pretend like nothing happened while I’m there.”

  “I’m sorry… ” Ciaran didn’t know what else to say. They didn’t teach you at Hendon how to deal with an upset, beautiful young woman, who he wanted to put his arms around and comfort. “If you need someone to talk to you can always, well, you know…”

  That brought a teary smile. “I know,” she said. “Thanks.”

  “Well, I better…”

  “Yes, you had…”

  “Um, bye,” he managed to mutter before fleeing the room, berating himself for making a complete balls up of the interview. The only saving grace being neither Crane nor Anderson were around to witness it, nor was Holly. Which reminded him, he had to tell her about the devices when he got back to the office. Perhaps she could try and trace them or something.

  Theresa

  The next morn
ing the murder of Sally Sawyer was still all over the news. But this time there was a phone number to call. An anonymous tip line or something. It seemed every time Theresa walked past the screen, the murder was the top story and the phone number was flashing. Pulling her eye towards it. Filling the screen so it couldn’t be ignored.

  Walking into the kitchen she began to clear away her breakfast things, but over the clattering of the crockery, the TV could still be heard. On and on the news item went; what a wonderful girl she was, how it was a crying shame, a life snuffed out too soon. The platitudes for Sally went on and on until she ran back into the living room and turned the bloody thing off.

  Silence filled the space, but whilst one voice had been stopped, another took its place. It could be him, it whispered in her head. You know it could. What are you going to do about it? You need to tell someone.

  “But I don’t know anything,” she yelled at the empty room, but her words were absorbed by the soft furnishings. “There’s nothing I can do!” The curtains moved as though disturbed by her shouting and then settled again.

  What if it is him? the voice started up again. How many more girls have to die before you do the right thing?

  She stomped up the stairs, hoping making the bed and cleaning the bathroom would stop the calls for her to act. In the bedroom she became calmer, shaking out the duvet and plumping the pillows. The room was a bit stuffy, so she opened the window which looked out onto the back garden. Leaning out and taking deep breaths of fresh air, she began to feel better.

  She watched a blackbird hop across the grass, which was as green and smooth as a bowling green. It was one of Tim’s hobbies, the back lawn. The bird stopped, did a little dance as he tapped the ground and was rewarded with a worm. She smiled indulgently at it. Maybe he felt her presence at the window, for he turned his beady eyes on her and opening his mouth, dropped the worm onto the grass.

  You know what to do, he chirped. Do the right thing. Don’t let anyone else die.

  By now she was convinced she was a forty-something, lonely housewife, going mad with boredom and withdrawing her head, she slammed the window shut. But she wasn’t quick enough, as she heard the trees rustled and sigh, Make the call, make the call.

  “Alright, alright! I’ll do what you want, just leave me alone!”

  Sobbing and stumbling down the stairs, she reached for the phone, but couldn’t remember the number to call. Grabbing the remote and turning the TV back on, she saw the number was still on the screen. 0800 111 222. With trembling fingers she keyed in the digits and was rewarded with the sound of ringing.

  “Crime Stoppers, how may I help you?” the male operator sounded much calmer than she was.

  “I…” Teresa’s mouth was dry and she licked her cracked lips. “I…” she tried again. Close to tears she bunched her free hand into a fist, dug her fingernails into her palms and blurted out, “I think I know who killed Sally Sawyer.”

  By tea time, no one had rung her back. Theresa had left her mobile number, her name and her husband’s name. But they still hadn’t called as she finished the final preparations for dinner later that afternoon. She checked her mobile for what felt like the hundredth time that day and there was still no missed call from the police. Actually no missed calls, or answered calls, from anyone. She’d spent most of the day pacing the house and the garden and then taking a turn around the block, to try and still her shaking hands and clear her head.

  Normally she would have gone into town, perhaps chosen some new books from the library and stopped for a coffee and a cake. But looking in the mirror that morning, and seeing someone who looked more like a mad woman than a respectable middle-class wife, she’d stayed at home and tried to do something with her appearance instead.

  So now she was showered, dressed casually in trousers and a shirt and her hair, freshly washed, was gleaming, just the way she liked it. The wrong side of forty - she’d had their first child at eighteen - she often wondered if she should cut her hair in line with her advancing years. But in many ways her tresses were her best feature and she felt she would easily disappear into the wallpaper without them. For everything else about her screamed mumsy. Some would say she was the classic English rose with her pale skin, clear blue eyes and dark hair. But she knew she was pear-shaped; too wide at the hips and hadn’t much in the way of breasts.

  She’d become pregnant after they’d met in their first year at the local university. But Tim had stood by her and married her, so she’d done her best to support him as he graduated with a First Class Honours Degree, did a Master’s degree and then courtesy of a PhD, entered the hallowed halls of academia. But all the while she had pushed her own academic yearnings to the back of her mind. Family came first. Always. Her parents had taught her that. And Tim had agreed with them. When she’d found out she was pregnant she’d considered an abortion, as she was loving learning and university life, but no one else had agreed with her. ‘That would be a terrible thing to do,’ she was told. ‘How could you ever contemplate something like that?’ they’d asked. But in the back of her mind, Theresa had always resented the fact that Tim had carried on with his life the way he’d envisaged it and she hadn’t been able to. Not that she didn’t love her boys. Of course she did. Who wouldn’t? The thing was, no one else seemed to appreciate how much she’d given up to have them.

  Then there was the matter of further education. For years she’d harboured a desire to complete her degree. If nothing else, surely she would have been able to attend university as a mature student once the children were old enough. But that had been frowned upon also. Once more she was faced with the negative pressure her parents and Tim were so good at. ‘Why would you want to do that?’ she’d been asked. ‘Surely it’s not necessary? You have a lovely family and a lovely home, what more could you want?’ She could hear them now, the outrage, the disapproval clear in their words and tone.

  She was peeling potatoes in the kitchen at the back of the house when Tim arrived back home, interrupting her spiralling thoughts.

  His, “Hello, love,” made her drop the knife with a clatter into the sink.

  “Jesus,” she said, turning round and proffering her cheek for a kiss. “You gave me a fright. Good trip?” she asked and returned to her peeling.

  “Oh, you know,” he said.

  She didn’t know, of course, but let it pass. She was having enough trouble concentrating on not slicing her fingers open with the knife, without having to make conversation at the same time.

  “How long’s dinner?”

  “About an hour.”

  “Great,” he replied. “I’ll grab a shower and unpack.”

  As he walked out of the room, she let go of the knife again and grabbed the edge of the sink, breathing deeply in and out, to try and still her fluttering heartbeat. After a while she managed to complete the dinner preparations.

  Later, over dinner, he told her about his conference, appearing completely normal. He showed her the papers and brochures he’d brought back with him and talked about speakers she would have found interesting. And there was the rub, she supposed. Would have found interesting. If she hadn’t given up everything for her family, only for them to leave her and move on with their lives, not caring that she was left behind, bereft.

  Forcing such treacherous thoughts away, she gradually relaxed with the aid of a couple of glasses of wine. Tim’s homecoming was no different from any other. She couldn’t detect anything strange or different about him. They normally rubbed along fairly happily and had a well-worn routine, which they both unconsciously followed.

  They took cups of tea through to the lounge, where they watched TV for an hour or so, before turning in for an early night. Within minutes Tim was fast asleep beside her, but it took her a while longer to drop off, as she fussed and fretted over the call she’d made to Crime Stoppers. She now hoped they wouldn’t ring back. She wasn’t sure about anything anymore. Pushing her hair off her face, she felt her cheeks burning with embarrassment
in the dark.

  Anderson

  “Oy, come back here you little shit!” Anderson called to the scrawny kid holding a mobile phone, who had started running away from him the moment he identified himself as a policeman. “I only want the bloody phone, not you!” he called. But it made no difference; the lad was off down the street like Hussein Bolt.

  Anderson grinned and walked after the boy, safe in the knowledge that Ciaran was at the other end of the alley, waiting with a police car and, sure enough, by the time Anderson got there, the lad was in the back, kicking effectually at the back of the driver’s seat.

  “Has he said anything?” Anderson asked as they climbed in the car.

  “No. At least nothing that resembled the Queen’s English and involved complete sentences.”

  “Got the phone?”

  “Yeah,” and Douglas held up an evidence bag with a mobile in it.

  “Right you,” Anderson said, turning in his seat to look at the young boy behind him. He couldn’t have been much older than eleven or twelve years old and Anderson was saddened by the thought of a young life being wasted so early. What was wrong with kids today? He was buggered if he knew. “Where’d you get the phone?”

  “Fuck off, pig!”

  “Oh, come on, that’s not going to get us anywhere, is it?”

  But the boy refused to be placated and continued swearing.

  The team had received a call from a community policeman telling him the word was out that the young lad in the car with them was the one to go to if you wanted a knocked-off mobile and his patch was the area of Aldershot where Sally Smith had lived. Fancying a bit of fresh air and because he missed being on the streets himself, he’d decided to take Ciaran with him and see what his young DC was made of.