Maguire, Steve and Kevin all perked up. ‘An accomplice?’ queried Maguire.
Phineas nodded at Dave Harvey. ‘Go ahead.’
Dave Harvey stood up, got out a large plan from under his arm and pinned it to the blackboard on Maguire’s office wall. ‘This is a plan of the red Citroen,’ he said. ‘We haven’t downloaded all the DNA we’ve found yet, but we’ve done enough to show that Jemima’s body was definitely in the vehicle, the passenger side. We are assuming that it was taken out of the car and put in another carrier, a wheelbarrow or something similar, which we’ve not found yet, and then transported to the ice house. There’s plenty of Jemima’s DNA, blood, hairs and stuff to confirm that. Also she had red fibres on her body, which match the red lining in the car well.. There’s no doubt at all, that car was definitely used in the murder.’
‘But by whom? demanded Maguire.
‘That we can’t tell you yet. The car was wiped clean with a petrol based cleaner. Whoever did it did a good job. But we’ll find a spot that they missed, you mark my words.’
‘Soon I hope,’ grunted Maguire irritably. He turned to Kevin. ‘Have you found out yet who owned the damned car?’
‘Oh yes, it has a SORN registration number, and Tom Maplin is the off road owner.’
‘Tom Maplin?’ repeated Maguire in a loud voice.
‘Yes, and I know he’s Ruth Villiers’ boyfriend,’ said Kevin. ‘I was going to ask whether I should call him in later this morning when we knew more on the forensic side, or whether perhaps we should go out and interview him straight away.’
‘Call him in now,’ roared Maguire in a voice so loud that both Steve Grayson and Kevin jumped. When Maguire became angry it was always so unexpected, and so loud. It never failed to startle them. ‘Now,’ he shouted again. ‘Why on earth didn’t you tell me this straight away?’
Kevin stood up, knocking his chair over in his haste, and scuttled crabwise out of the office. He muttered something incomprehensible as he went, and Lizzie couldn’t help hiding a smile. Poor Kevin.
‘Why is it I’m surrounded by idiots?’ demanded Maguire, slamming his fist down on his desk. ‘We could have had this case sewn up and reported to the Super if only I had some staff with half a brain between them.’
‘It has been a very stressful night and morning,’ said Lizzie, trying to pour oil on troubled waters. ‘There’s been a lot to take in and think about, for everyone.’
‘That’s no excuse for letting their brains get addled,’ muttered Maguire, subsiding into an angry heap.
Phineas and Dave Harvey said nothing, but both rolled their eyes, shrugged and looked at Lizzie.
Chapter 16
After Kevin’s rapid departure an uneasy silence fell in the room, until Phineas levered himself from his chair, and patted Lizzie on the shoulder in a fatherly manner. ‘You should go home now and get some rest,’ he said. ‘And stop worrying about Harold Villiers’ demise. There was nothing you could have done for him, even if those Critical Care numbskulls had done their jobs properly.’
Lizzie frowned, she knew he was trying to set her mind at rest, but it didn’t help. ‘I should have stayed with him, and insisted that he was taken into hospital,’ she said. Nothing was going to change her mind or make her feel better. She’d gone against all her principles and allowed herself to be swayed by her patient’s demands, even though she knew his wishes were not in his best interests. The plain fact was she should have insisted that he was hospitalised, and she’d failed him in that respect.
Phineas guessed what she was thinking and tried to help. ‘Getting him into hospital wouldn’t have made any difference. He suffered a haemorrhagic stroke. From what I could see at autopsy, he had a brain aneurysm just waiting to pop, and it did. It could have happened at any time.’
‘Do you mean…?’ Lizzie hesitated.
‘Yes, I mean it could have happened when he was tucked up nice and cosily in a bed at the Infirmary, or as it did in a hut beside the river. Any place, any time. When the time comes, it will pop.’
‘Does that happen often?’ asked Dave Harvey, looking rather alarmed.
‘Oh yes,’ said Phineas cheerfully, ‘someone in the UK has a stroke every five minutes. Harold Villiers was the perfect candidate. Overweight, high blood pressure, smoked, didn’t take any exercise, and doubtless drank too much. All the things that put you in line for a stroke, and he had an aneurism.’
‘For God’s sake, Phineas,’ said Maguire. ‘You make me feel depressed.’
‘Don’t worry, Adam. Depression doesn’t cause strokes, not as far as I know anyway.’ Phineas got to the doorway of the office. ‘Dave and I will have more forensic stuff for you in the next day or two, but most of what you need is in there.’ He nodded towards the pile of paperwork he’d deposited on Maguire’s desk. ‘I’ve printed it all out because I know you prefer that. But it’s all backed up on file on the computer.’ Phineas left the office, followed by Dave.
‘Thanks,’ said Maguire. He looked at Lizzie. ‘He’s right. You should go home. You look all in, and there’s nothing you can do here anyway. You’re not a policeman.’
Lizzie felt a little annoyed at being shut out from the continuing enquiries, but knew she was being ridiculous. Maguire was quite right; this wasn’t her place, not her enquiry, and as he had just reminded her, she was not a policeman! Nevertheless, that didn’t stop her imagination and inquisitive mind from working overtime. Now, however, there was nothing for it but to make a graceful exit, which is what she did.
‘I will tell you when we come to any conclusions,’ said Maguire as she left.
She knew that he knew exactly how she was feeling, and somehow that added insult to injury. She didn’t want to go home. She wanted to know what was happening. Her mind was buzzing with questions.
*
’Hey, Kevin,’ Fred Burton, the desk sergeant called out to Kevin Harrison as he dashed past him on his way to the main office and his telephone. With Maguire’s words still ringing in his ears, he paid no attention, until the sergeant shouted again. ‘Kevin, I’ve got something for you. It’s important.’
Kevin skidded to a momentary halt. ‘I can’t stop now; Maguire will have my guts for garters if I waste time.’
The desk sergeant held up his hand. ‘You won’t be wasting your time. This is important; it’s to do with your case.’ He waved a piece of paper. ‘Read this.’
Reluctantly Kevin took the paper and read the note scrawled across it, then gasped. ‘Good heavens. The car has just been reported missing. The red Citroen has been reported missing,’ he repeated. ‘In Salisbury of all places, by Thomas Maplin.’ He looked up at Fred, ‘But how did you know this was important?’
‘Because I keep my eyes and ears open,’ said Fred. ‘I knew that car was tied up in some way to your murder case, and I knew you’d found it dumped at the back of Salisbury railway station. So when Salisbury police put out a call to all local forces about a missing Citroen, and it had been reported missing by one Thomas Maplin saying it had been stolen from his garage, and it was off road, I put two and two together.’
‘Thanks,’ gasped Kevin, interrupting Fred’s long explanation. Turning around he rushed back waving the paper like a banner. He burst into the office, and thrust it into Maguire’s hand.
‘So,’ said Maguire slowly after reading it. ‘Thomas Maplin claims that it has not been used for more than a year, and that he only discovered it was missing this morning. Rather strange don’t you think?’
‘Very strange,’ agreed Steve. ‘Kevin and I interviewed him because he’s Ruth Villiers’ boyfriend. They live together in the same house as Jemima.’
‘Yes,’ Kevin interrupted. ‘A typical, rather lazy student in my opinion. I didn’t take to him. But why has he reported it missing now?’
‘Maybe because he heard that the police had found his burnt out car. Maybe he was the one who tipped it down into the ballast hole, thinking it would be a long time before it was found. In fa
ct, if it weren’t for those travellers’ kids it probably wouldn’t have been found until the autumn when the leaves dropped from the trees; or maybe longer than that if the undergrowth grew and covered it.’ Maguire leaned back and tapped his pencil against his teeth in an absent-minded way. ‘What I wouldn’t give for a spot of second sight,’ he muttered under his breath.
Steve looked at his boss, knowing just what he meant. ‘I suppose Harold Villiers must have taken the car,’ he said. ‘He owns that house where the students live. He’ll have spare keys to the house, bicycle shed and garage. He must have known the old car was stored in the garage. It would be easy enough to take the car when everyone was out. In fact, it could have been missing for some time.’
‘Yes, but why has Thomas Maplin reported it missing now? Just when we were looking for the car,’ asked Kevin. ‘It seems very suspicious to me. Maybe this student is our murderer.’
Maguire thought for a moment then said. ‘We’ll add him to our suspect list, but don’t let’s rush into anything. We’ve got one suspect, Harold, although unfortunately he’s dead, so he won’t be able to give us much information, and now we’ll add this young man. Get hold of this Thomas Maplin, and tell him we think we have found his car. Don’t say it’s definitely the one. We’ll let him wonder for a bit. Ask him to come out to Stibbington Station tomorrow. Make an appointment for him, but don’t say it’s urgent. I’ll see Thomas Maplin after I’ve dealt with Fergus Garrick.’
‘It’s going to be a busy morning,’ said Steve.
Maguire nodded. ‘Yes, this case has got legs again,’ he said slowly and smiled.
*
Her iPhone reminder started pinging just as Lizzie opened the door of her car. She frowned, what was it reminding her to do? After glancing at the calendar she realized she had completely forgotten it was the day Hilda Thorne was due to start cleaning for her. What was more she was due at Silver Cottage at 11 o’clock, and it was now 10.30 am. Hilda Thorne didn’t have a key for entry yet and the poor woman would be waiting outside if she didn’t hurry. She remembered now why she suggested Hilda could start at 11, it was because she thought she could dash back and give her a key at the end of her morning surgery, before she started her morning visits. She swung the car out from the police station car park, joined Stibbington High Street and started driving out of town towards Silver Cottage.
Sod’s law, there was an unusual amount of traffic through the forest. Lizzie suddenly realized why when she was stuck behind a large, slow, steamroller chugging its way along the narrow lanes towards her cottage. It was the day before the Cullupton Steam Rally. She’d read about it; apparently, steam engines of every size and type descended on Cullupton for the three day event. The actual village was just beyond her cottage, a tiny forest village in the fields alongside the furthest reaches of the river Stib. The road past her cottage was one of only two roads into the village, one from the east and one from the south. Silver Cottage was on the southerly one that wound its way up from Stibbington. Lizzie tried to relax and slowed down behind the massive rumbling, steam-belching machine, hoping Hilda had been similarly delayed.
She must have been, for when Lizzie arrived at her cottage there was no sign of Hilda Thorne. In fact, she had time to make herself a reviving coffee before the front door bell rang. The tinny tones of The Bluebells of Scotland echoed through the cottage, reminding Lizzie once more that she had yet to change the wretched doorbell. She’d now been in residence for eight months, but hadn’t changed it. She knew why. When it rang, it annoyed her, but the moment it was quiet she promptly forgot about it until the next time.
She opened the door. Hilda Thorne was standing on the front door step, looking about her with, what Lizzie thought, was a critical eye. Suddenly she was horribly aware of the mud-splashed panels of the front door; it hadn’t been washed since the torrential downpours of the previous winter and spring.
‘What a lovely doorbell you’ve got,’ said Hilda Thorne, peering closely at it. ‘I saw one like that on a television programme once. Where did you get it? I’ve always wanted one just like that, but Wildings, the ironmongers, never has anything in like that. Jim Wilding goes for plain knockers.’
‘It came with the house,’ said Lizzie, trying not to giggle. ‘And I’m intending to change it; as soon as I do, you can have this one if you like. I dare say your husband would be able to install it for you.’
‘Oh yes, Wally could do that, and at the same time I could get him to put you in some chimes. I always think Big Ben’s chimes are nice, so restful.’
‘Yes, perhaps,’ said Lizzie doubtfully. Most of her working life she’d been within the sound of Big Ben’s chimes, measuring every quarter of an hour, reminding her that the day was flying past, and she had not found them at all restful. She opened the door wider, ‘do come in.’
Hilda followed Lizzie around the house. She made little sniffing noises now and again; Lizzie wasn’t certain whether they were sniffs of approval or disapproval, and found them a bit off putting. When they eventually arrived at the cupboard in the back porch, where Lizzie stored all her cleaning materials, there were several more sniffs, definitely disapproving thought Lizzie. Then Mrs Thorne got out a small notepad and pencil from her pocket. She scribbled for a moment then tore off a sheet and handed it to Lizzie.
‘These are the cleaning materials I shall require, and I shall bring some clean dusters, and dish clothes with me.’ She held up a very worn and tattered duster, that Lizzie, to her shame, couldn’t remember actually using. ‘With your permission, I shall throw this away.’
‘Oh yes, of course, yes do.’ Lizzie felt embarrassed. She could just imagine her telling Elsie Clacket. Would Adam Maguire get to hear of it? Lizzie Browne has disgusting dusters!
‘Right,’ said Hilda, with a loud, positive sounding sniff, taking off her cardigan, and getting out a crisply ironed pinafore from her canvas bag. ‘I shall make a start now. Of course, I shall not be able to do a good do through in the time left today, as I’m starting late, but eventually I’m sure I shall be able to get your house up to scratch.’
‘Thank you,’ said Lizzie humbly.
‘I shall start on the bedroom,’ said Hilda firmly. ‘I always believe that a clean and tidy bedroom is most important.’
‘Thank you,’ said Lizzie again. ‘I expect you’ll want me out of your way, so I’m going to relax on the terrace in the garden. I was up most of last night with a seriously ill patient, and I’m very tired.’
‘Yes, you relax,’ said Hilda. ‘I don’t want you getting under my feet.’
Lizzie warmed up her coffee hastily in the microwave, taking care not to slop any, and went through to the terrace. Had she done the right thing in engaging Hilda Thorne to do her cleaning? Sitting in the warm sunshine Lizzie let her mind wander. So the red car she’d seen Jemima getting into had belonged to Ruth’s boyfriend. What was his connection to Jemima, apart from casual friendship? She’d met Ruth, and liked her. In fact, felt rather sorry for her. It was not easy for a girl to be so large she reflected; she’d had a friend at junior school who was six foot at the age of eleven, and everyone called her jumbo. A cruel nickname and one which made her self-conscious, although in the end she’d realized her full potential and had become an orthopaedic surgeon. A job for which strength was often needed. And Ruth, now Lizzie thought about it, was apparently doing an engineering course, so maybe her size had steered her in that direction. She certainly looked strong. Her thoughts went back to the car. Had Tom come to fetch Ruth from the Country House Hotel? Were they both in the car she’d seen pick up Jemima? Surely, the pair of them couldn’t have killed Jemima. Why would they? Confused thoughts buzzed around in her head, but gradually the warm sunshine lulled her to sleep, and she slept for nearly three hours, until a tap on her shoulder awoke her.
It was Hilda Thorne. ‘I’ve done through Silver Cottage as best I can,’ she said, and sniffed. ‘I’ll get it better next time. I’ll be off now.’
&nb
sp; Lizzie struggled to consciousness and got up. ‘My handbag is in the kitchen, I think. I presume you’d like to be paid in cash.’
‘Yes,’ said Hilda. ‘I do prefer cash. And it’s £10 an hour.’
Luckily, Lizzie had three crisp new £10 notes in her purse. Somehow, she would have felt guilty giving old notes to Hilda. Retrieving a spare back door key from its hiding place in a teacup on the dresser she gave it to Hilda. ‘Here’s a key so that you can let yourself in when I’m working at the health centre. And when I am not here, I’ll leave your money in this jug on the dresser.’
Hilda nodded and sniffed. ‘Good, I do prefer to be able to get everything done on my own, it’s much quicker. I’ve put the bedclothes through the washing machine, and then hung them on the drier in the utility room at the back. I presumed that’s what you would want.’
Lizzie nodded. ‘Yes, thank you so much. That will be fine.’
Hilda put the money carefully in her purse. ‘I’m off to Avon Hall now,’ she said. ‘I started there a year ago. That girl Jade that they’ve got in the house is no good at anything. Mrs Villiers is trying to train her up to be a proper parlour maid.’ She sniffed, definitely a derisory sniff thought Lizzie, ‘But as I said to her, you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear can you.’
Poor Jade, a sow’s ear, thought Lizzie, but probably true unfortunately. ‘I met her up at the hall,’ she said, adding, ‘she’s very young. Maybe she’ll learn.’
Hilda sniffed. ‘Maybe,’ she said, not sounding convinced. ‘But she’s not used to dealing with people like the Villiers. They’ve got some strange ways.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Lizzie curiously, scenting an interesting piece of gossip.
Mrs Thorne carefully deposited the purse in her handbag, and clasped it to her substantial bosom. ‘Well for a start,’ she said. ‘There’s all the business of having to keep things secret. Secrets between the seniors and Janet Hastings, secrets between the children when they came over, always secrets. Like the goings on between Mr and Mrs Villiers.’
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