Two Feet Under (Lindenshaw Mysteries Book 3)

by Charlie Cochrane

  “Doubt it,” Sarah said. “Warnock doesn’t know her personally, as far as we’re aware. Only knows what Pippa told him about her.”

  “My money would be on Howarth.” Pru nodded. “I can imagine him opening his big gob and either being overheard—you know how loud he talks—or doing something daft like saying, ‘You thought you’d scare us, but we’re going to sort you instead,’ straight to her face. He doesn’t do subtlety.”

  “He doesn’t, but surely he’s not had time to be overheard, unless they both just happened to be in the same place at the same time. Was Culford villa open yesterday?”

  Ben raised his hand, like one of Adam’s pupils might be doing at this very moment. “Did Sian need to be tipped off, sir? Strikes me that she’s a clever girl. She’d know that we were getting close to the truth.”

  “Could be. And none of this gets us any closer to finding her.” Robin leaped away from the desk where he’d been leaning. “Although while you’re asking both Howarth and Bairstow whether they know where she is, feel free to put a bit of pressure on. They’ve arsed us around for long enough. Anything else to add, sir?”

  Cowdrey, with his usual slightly dyspeptic, deeply thoughtful expression on his face, shook his head. “Not at the moment. I still need to get my brain round this, but it feels like you’ve done all the things I’d have done at the time I’d have done them. Although I don’t yet know all the details.” He gave Robin a smile, but it wasn’t reassuring.

  Had they missed their one chance?

  When Robin and Pru got to Sian’s house—a detached Victorian villa in Merritt’s End, which was the single posh part of Culdover—there was no sign of life. Not a light on, nor a window open, no car on the gravel drive, and an empty feeling clinging to the place.

  “I bet she has done a runner, sir.” Pru’s gaze swept across the well-kept facade.

  Robin scanned the surroundings. The house was the last on its side of the street, adjacent to a small area of open ground which occupied all the space up to the junction with the next road. Each residential property sat in a generous plot, making it easy for someone to come and go unnoticed.

  “That was always the likeliest outcome. We were clutching at straws to think otherwise.” Eyes shaded against the glare with his hand, Robin peered through the window into a lounge which gave no indication of anything untoward. “No justification for us to be breaking in without a warrant. We’ll take a peek round the—”

  His proposal was interrupted by a cheery “Hello!” from the other side of the front hedge.

  A dapper grey-haired chap peered over the greenery. “Are you looking for Sian?”

  “We are indeed.”

  “Not seen her since yesterday. I think she’s probably gone off somewhere, although she normally tells us when that happens. I’m David, by the way.” The grey-haired man extended a hand, which Robin readily shook.

  “I’m Robin Bright. Police.” He produced his warrant card. “This is my sergeant, Pru Davis.”

  “Police? Is Sian all right?”

  “We don’t know. She’s not turned up at work and hasn’t made contact with anyone, so we’re rightly concerned for her welfare.” Which was no word of a lie.

  “I have a spare key to her house. When we moved here, we asked if she’d keep one for us so she could pop in and feed the fish when we’re off on our travels.” David jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “She was more than happy to agree, and asked us to return the favour, not that she goes away a lot. Not like us. We’re typical pensioners; always off gallivanting, and George does like his cruises.”

  Robin restrained a smile at the unfortunate choice of words. “Sounds like an excellent arrangement. Have you lived here long?”

  “We’ve been here nine, ten months, I think. Might be longer. Time flies when you’re our age.” David’s smile—which appeared to be as much of the man’s apparel as his bow tie—beamed out. “Shall I fetch that key?”

  “It might be a good idea. Just in case she’s had an accident and needs help.”

  “Oh yes, quite right.” Smile fading, he scuttled off, evidently keen to be of help.

  “What?” Robin raised his eyebrows at Pru, who was eyeing him quizzically. “It’s sensible procedure. For all we know she might be lying in there. Attacked by the real killer, whose identity the poor dumb rozzers have yet to work out.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Pru grinned. “I wonder if you and Adam will end up like David and George when you’re retired? Going off cruising.”

  “You’ve got a filthy mind. Keep it on the matter in hand. Ah! Thanks.” Robin gave David his most winning smile. “You’ve done us a real favour.”

  “I’m pleased to help. I just hope there’s nothing nasty in there.” David tried to hand the keys over, but Robin wouldn’t take them.

  “I’d be grateful if you’d open the door for us. You can stand on the threshold and make certain we don’t trash the place.” Robin smiled again, secretly pleased to see a flush creep over David’s cheeks. It didn’t count as flirting if the man concerned was the best part of seventy, surely?

  “I trust you. Thousands wouldn’t.” David marched round the hedge and up the path, then worked the key in a hefty-looking Chubb lock before gingerly turning the handle and pushing open the front door. “Sian? It’s David. Anyone home?”

  When no answer came, Robin slipped on a pair of protective gloves, then cautiously stepped inside. There was always a fine line to be trod between what was legal—an Englishwoman’s home was her castle, so no entering without proper process and all that—and what was expedient. He consoled himself with the reminder that if there was a chance Sian really had been attacked in her own home, then the police couldn’t morally walk away and not double-check. Although Grace might have their guts for garters, in that case, for messing up her nice crime scene.

  By the time he’d got all those thoughts clear, he’d convinced himself that the house was empty, although they’d still need to look in each room; there might be signs of a struggle, or of Sian preparing a hasty getaway. If the kitchen—unwashed dishes in the sink even though generally the place was spotless—spoke of hurried departure, the parqueted floor of the lounge was of more interest.

  “Rugs!” Robin pointed like an idiot at what was obvious. “Posh Chinese rugs.”

  “We need to make this visit official, sir.” Pru beat a careful retreat towards the front door.

  “I’ll do that as soon as I’ve checked upstairs. We said we’d come here to establish whether Sian was here,” he added loudly, in part for David’s benefit, “and that’s what we’ll do.”

  The brief search of the upstairs rooms produced signs of somebody having packed, but Robin refrained from delving too deeply. They needed a warrant to conduct a proper search, although would that yield anything? While he didn’t hold out too much hope that the garage might still show signs of a body being stored there, Grace could sometimes work little short of a miracle.

  A small black address book, on an old-fashioned telephone table in the hall, caught Robin’s eye; he picked it up gingerly between two carefully gloved fingers. There could be more people listed there to contact regarding Sian’s whereabouts, although they’d need one of those miracles he’d just assigned to Grace to be able to locate her so easily.

  Robin thanked the next-door neighbour for his help, asked him to lock up, and enquired if he’d be around to let the forensic people gain access once all the paperwork was in place. David, clearly both intrigued and delighted, agreed at once, offering to provide Robin and Pru with coffee and biscuits while they waited.

  “You’re a life saver.” And they wouldn’t simply be taking advantage of the refreshments; David might be able to provide them with a gem of information.

  They followed him into his well-appointed house, where he settled them into a well-appointed conservatory, then went to fetch the coffee.

  “I can imagine you and Adam living like this in twenty years’ time,” Pru said appr
ovingly.

  “More like thirty if not forty, madam.” Robin wagged his finger. “I wonder where George is?”

  “Off volunteering for the CAB or something equally public spirited, I’d have said. Or maybe stocking up on the latest cruising information.”

  “No mention of cruising. Be serious.”

  By the time David had returned with a laden tray, Pru was wearing her most professional face and Robin was avoiding looking at the stack of P&O brochures he’d spotted on the coffee table shelf.

  Over the refreshments—as tasty as Robin expected them to be—they discussed the local area. Sometime the previous year, Robin remembered, there’d been a hoo-hah going on in Merritt’s End. He asked David to jog his memory.

  “Oh, yes. They were going to put in a waste-recycling plant on the ground the other side of Sian’s. Got planning permission for it despite huge uproar from all and sundry. Palms must have been greased to allow such a monstrosity in this area.”

  “Sounds likely.” Recollections of the case came flooding back. “Wasn’t there a councillor who had to stand down in mysterious circumstances?”

  “Yes. Knuckles rapped all round. Anyway, people started selling up, particularly at this end of the road.”

  “But they’ve not built it yet?”

  “Unlikely ever to. Not given that their pal’s off the council. Nobody would pass it now.” David winked. “And then there was rumour that the company concerned were going out of business, as George discovered when he spoke to some of his pals who’s in the know. I wish he was here to tell you, but he’s had to go off and help his mother move into care.”

  “I’m sorry we missed him.” Robin wasn’t just being sociable. “You’ll have to fill in the pieces.”

  “I’ll do my best. Well, we got in and bought this house cheap as chips before the word spread too far. Some people still went ahead and moved, though—must have found better places or didn’t fancy the area being invaded by hordes on granny scooters, because the current plan for that site is upmarket sheltered accommodation for pensioners.”

  “Did Sian snap up a bargain too?”

  “So we understand. She’d not lived here long when we pitched up in July.”

  When they turned to picking David’s brains about what Sian was like as a neighbour, he had little to offer apart from the fact that she seemed an athletic sort of girl, often out on runs, and that they’d never had any problems with her. She had got tipsy over drinks last Christmas and turned maudlin. There’d been a few tears on David’s shoulder, but she’d soon bucked her ideas up.

  “She even initiated a spirited version of the conga,” David averred. “I’d never have believed George would high kick all around the garden—not with his hip—but she got us all going.”

  The conga. Was that what murderers got up to off duty?

  “She sounds like the life and soul of the party. We imagined she led quite a quiet life,” Pru remarked before sipping her coffee.

  “She generally does. Rarely see many people coming and going. There’s a chap sometimes.”

  “A chap?” Robin glanced up from where he’d been concentrating on not dropping biscuit crumbs on the carpet. “Old? Young?”

  “Everyone looks young to me. Especially policemen.” David’s tone came so perilously close to flirting Robin knew his sergeant was striving to hide a smirk. “This lad must be in his twenties.”

  Not Howarth, then. “A boyfriend? Can you give us a description?”

  “Couldn’t say on the first. Yes to the second. Blond hair, looks as though it’s been bleached. Skinny, I think, although one can’t be certain with the baggy sweatshirts he wears.” David stuck out his lip in thought. “Not what I’d call handsome. George says he’s got a scar under his right eye, but how he’s been close enough to be sure about that . . .”

  Scar under the right eye. Jamie Warnock?

  Robin put on a saccharine smile. “That’s very helpful. You don’t have a name for this man by any chance?”

  “Alas, no. Sian never mentioned him, and we didn’t like to ask.” David stirred his drink distractedly. “Like I said, I don’t even know if he is her boyfriend. Wouldn’t she have mentioned it to us?”

  “Possibly.” And this opened up a whole new scenario. What if Warnock had been visiting Sian to put pressure on her, pressure that would have been ramped up since the discovery of the body? I know what you did to Pippa. And when I’ve got proof . . . Then what would he do? Kidnap her with a view to taking his revenge? But Robin was getting ahead of himself, ideas running in advance of the evidence.

  “Has this bloke with the blond hair been here in the last few days?” Pru asked.

  “He may have been, but we wouldn’t know. We’ve been off gallivanting. George will be so upset he missed you. He always jokes that Sian has some deep, dark secret.”

  Perhaps George was right. “Really? Based on what?”

  “Oh, I doubt it’s based on anything. He’s just very naughty. He has a theory that her opposite runs a brothel, when she’s the least likely madam in the world. Mind you, she’s the woman to ask if you want concrete information. She misses nothing.” David’s waspish expression said it all.

  “We will,” Robin promised.

  And they did, once the refreshments were finished and they’d made their goodbyes. Pru took Sian’s side of the street, Robin the other, neither confident that they’d find many people in at this time on a Monday. He was in luck, though, the woman in the house directly across the road answering his knock at such a lick she must have been watching and waiting for him.

  “Good morning.” Robin produced his warrant card, which was duly scrutinised. “We’re making some enquiries concerning the whereabouts of Sian Wheatstone. She lives in the house opposite.”

  “She went off late last night.” The woman rolled her eyes. “I’m Fiona Charles, by the way.”

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  “We don’t get the police around here a lot. Although I’ve only lived here a few months.”

  But doubtless she already knew the intimate particulars of everyone living on the road. Robin forced a smile. “What time did she go?”

  “Around half eleven. I couldn’t sleep, so I was prowling around the house. I noticed lights on in Miss Wheatstone’s house, which is unusual because she’s not a late bird, so I thought I’d have a peep. In case there was a problem.”

  “Of course.” Robin didn’t doubt she’d have a list of excuses ready to hand for the reasons she’d been “having a peep” at her neighbours. “Was there a problem?”

  “I’m not sure.” Mrs. Charles’s brows knit in thought, maybe a touch theatrically. Clearly, she was milking every moment of this, although that didn’t mean she wasn’t telling the truth. “That lad was here. He calls round a lot, and she usually gives him short shrift.”

  “Which lad?”

  “I don’t know his name. He has a scar here.” She indicated her right cheek. “He’s a nasty-looking piece of work if you ask me. Anyway, he entered the house, and a few minutes later they both exited. I had stayed to observe just in case I needed to call for help.”

  “Go on. I’m making a note.” Robin continued to jot down the salient parts of the testimony.

  “Well, a few minutes later they emerged. She had one of those little roll-along suitcases, and he slung it into the boot of her car.”

  “Thanks. Now, I need to be clear on this. Did she go willingly?”

  “I don’t know. He certainly seemed to be remonstrating with her before they went inside, and he was almost dragging her by the arm when they came back out.” She stopped, perhaps replaying the events in her mind. “And he drove, even though it was her car.”

  “Was there any sign that this man carried a weapon?”

  “No, although if he’d had it concealed in his jacket, I wouldn’t have seen it. I only knew it was him because the light from the door showed his scar.” She suddenly flinched, although Robin could have sworn the
gesture was put on. “Is that how he got her to go with him? Waving a gun around? What if he’d noticed me? Am I in danger?” The idea didn’t appear to be entirely unwelcome to her.

  Two pangs of doubt nudged Robin. There was a chance Mrs. Charles was lonely—maybe widowed, or perhaps she’d poured her life into her family and had been left feeling useless now that the children had left the nest. He’d met the type before. Was this opportunity to be the centre of attention too good to resist, so the pudding was being over-egged? On the other hand, she could be genuinely scared, and with good reason. They were clearly dealing with a clever, manipulative murderer.

  “The chances are you won’t be in danger,” he reassured her. “I’m sure you’re a sensible woman, so just take the usual care in terms of opening the door to strangers. Don’t even let Sian or her friend in if they come knocking. You can ring Abbotston station if you’re worried, and please let us know as a matter of urgency if either of them return.”

  “I will do. I’ll watch that house like a hawk.”

  Robin didn’t doubt it.

  He couldn’t get a lot more of interest out of Mrs. Charles, although—after he compared notes with Pru—he discovered that the sergeant’s pickings had been even slimmer. She’d only found two people at home, and neither had seen or heard anything suspicious over the last few days.

  “Do you think things happened as your witness said, sir?”

  “I think we have to assume that, for the moment. I didn’t get the impression she’d make the story up. Improve on the truth, maybe, but not tell a lie.”

  Pru nodded. “And do we also assume that Warnock might have abducted Sian?”

  “It’s possible. Although if she was being coerced into leaving, why didn’t she scream blue murder? Chances are somebody round here would have heard.” Something didn’t add up, but that had been the situation right the way through this case. “Can you contact Cowdrey and ask him to put all the wheels in motion? We’ve already issued the alert, but that’ll need updating to include Warnock, or a man matching his description. I also think— Sorry. Cowdrey will know what to do.”