“No doubt he will. We’ll be staying here till we get the search warrant?”
“Yes. I’ll check on the houses either side of Mrs. Charles, and then I’m going to sit in the car and have a ponder.”
“About what?”
“About whether we’ve been looking at this upside down.”
By the time Robin settled himself in the car, Pru had managed to inveigle herself back into David’s house, ostensibly to update him on the developments and get the loan of his key, but no doubt to get her chops around some more coffee and biscuits. Robin, despite the pang of hunger, didn’t mind; being alone was welcome.
Had they made yet another mistake, not considering that Sian could herself be a potential victim? Had Warnock worked out that she’d killed Pippa—if it was Pippa in the grave—and taken his opportunity to get his own back? Or had this been simply a domestic case, all along, Warnock having murdered his ex-girlfriend, and his Community Payback experience having given him the means to get rid of the body? In which case, had Sian somehow discovered the truth and Warnock been forced to keep her quiet?
Robin remembered a piece of information from the start of the investigation, when Sian had described the Community Payback men as “sweethearts” or “sweeties” or something equally twee. That must have included Warnock. And why had David called him her boyfriend while Mrs. Charles had said he’d got short shrift when he’d come calling? Was that simply because David was the welcoming sort who saw the best in everyone, while the woman across the road interpreted things more negatively?
The “sweeties” remark kept buzzing around Robin’s head. He tried ringing Ben, to ask the constable to email him a timeline to show when the Community Payback people had been on-site and when Sian said she’d started working at Culford. Robin could have sworn she’d started much later, so the times couldn’t have overlapped, or had they got that wrong too? But Ben couldn’t oblige, being himself en route to Merritt’s End, warrant in hand. Robin got Sarah on the case, instead.
When Ben arrived ten minutes later, Robin greeted him with, “Any news?” pretty certain there wouldn’t be. He was right.
“We’ve been in contact with everyone we could think of who knew Sian, but nothing’s turned up,” Ben assured him. “Not a bloody sausage.”
Sian had mentioned an uncle—the one who’d wanted to get his paws on the Roman coins—and Ben had managed to track the bloke down, although to little avail. The uncle hadn’t heard from his niece in over a year and frankly had no interest in hearing from her again. She’d made trouble for the family, and as far as he was concerned that made her persona non grata.
“Oh.” Robin drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “The joys of family harmony.”
“If those are family values, you can stuff them, sir.” Ben pulled out a tube of fruit pastilles and offered Robin one. “He gave me a right earful about her. Said that for a small thing, she carried plenty of venom. Like a wasp.”
“He can’t have seen her in a while if he describes her as a small thing.” Robin looked at the sweet in his hand. A black pastille, his favourite colour—surely that had to be a good omen?
“I had a pal who dealt with life’s problems by going down to the gym. He put on pounds of muscle, so maybe Sian did the same. He said the exercise was addictive—you did one workout and you immediately craved the next.”
“I wouldn’t know. Gyms have never been my scene.” Even though the pastille had lodged in a back tooth, its sugary, comforting taste was working its soothing magic. Somewhere very close, the clue to this whole mess was lurking, if Robin could only clear his mind’s lumber room of the extraneous and irrelevant. “I’ve got an address book from the house. Can you work through it for anybody you’ve not already contacted, while Pru and I let the forensic mob in?”
As if on cue, Grace’s car appeared at the end of the road, signalling the start of a period of intense activity in and around Sian Wheatstone’s house. By the end of it they had evidence that Sian had packed a bag and left, taking—apparently—everything of importance, such as a passport, with her. Whether this had been under duress, they couldn’t tell. But Grace had scoured the garage, taken a mass of dust samples, and pointed out some interesting features.
“There’s animal poo in there. Might be rat. They’re pretty common in Culdover, even in Merritt’s End. Common everywhere, come to think of it. They say you’re never more than a few—”
“Thanks, Grace. We get the picture.” Robin shivered. He hated the things. “So our dead woman might have been placed in there?”
“Nothing so far to say that she wasn’t, but we’ll have a better idea when we get the samples analysed. There’s a small Chinese rug in the dining room that might be made from a similar material to the one our victim had fibres from on her clothes.” Grace tipped her head to one side. “Did you notice the hall carpet?”
“Not particularly. Apart from it being hideous.”
“True, but that’s not the point. If you lift the rug on top of it, it looks like somebody’s given an area a pretty vigorous clean using something that’s made the carpet pattern fade. I’ve taken samples, but I’m not hopeful anything survived. And it may just have been a bottle of red wine smashed.”
“While they were doing the conga?” Pru asked before putting her serious face back on. “Sorry. Too flippant. Do you think we’ll be able to get a link between the dead woman and this house?”
Grace shrugged. “I don’t know. If it’s there to be found, I’ll move heaven and earth to get it, but I can’t work miracles.”
“That’s not what Inspector Bright says.” Ben flushed under the CSI’s glare, but his I-wish-the-ground-would-swallow-me expression eased as Grace’s frown turned to a grin.
“Really? I’ll have to see what I can do.”
Robin forced himself to give her a smile. Divine intervention was just what this bloody case needed.
Monday evening, spot on the agreed time, Anderson appeared at Adam and Robin’s front door wearing something halfway between a smug grin and a sheepish one. Adam, with a wave of hospitality far in excess of anything he’d felt this last week, offered to put the kettle on for a cuppa while the sergeant fetched his stuff.
“That would be good.” Anderson appeared reassured at the offer of hospitality. “Can’t stay long, though. I’ll just go and pack.”
“That’s cool. Don’t worry about stripping the bed or tidying up. I’ll get our cleaning lady to do it.”
“If you’re sure?” The added relief on Anderson’s face at a job avoided almost changed Adam’s mind—the bloke needed to learn to do more around the house, especially with the baby due—but he waved the offer away. Best to get the bloke packed, make sure he had a cup of tea inside him, and send him off on his merry way.
They took their tea into the lounge, with Campbell confined to the kitchen; one dose of heroics from that dog was enough for the moment. Anderson was full of the news about the baby, reiterating his invitation for Robin to be godparent and dropping unsubtle hints about a wedding at some point in the future, when said baby was old enough to enjoy it. Either the leopard had changed his spots or they’d never been quite the spots they’d been depicted as.
“We’ll keep it small scale. The wedding.” Once Anderson had started smiling, he couldn’t seem to stop. “Helen’s dad will need managing about the whole business, but doesn’t he always? You guys are lucky not to have all the stress with in-laws.” The smile turned sheepish once more. “Sorry. I guess now the law has changed, you’ve potentially got the same problems.”
“Robin and I get married? I doubt the local PCC would let us. Although Neil always seems sympathetic to our relationship.” What was he saying, letting his mind run on about whether his vicar—who admittedly focussed less on telling people what they shouldn’t do than on reminding them of Christian service—would look kindly on any union of man with man?
“Maybe it’ll happen, then. You’d love it.” The zeal of the re
cently converted rang out.
“My mother might love it—marriage or civil partnership or whatever. She’d wear a hat the size of Belgium.” He was doing it again, discussing with their erstwhile guest matters he’d not even discussed with his partner. “Anyway, I hope it all works out for you and Helen. Everybody loves a new baby in the family. Hopefully it’ll be a unifying force for her dad and all the rest of them.”
Better leave it there before risking letting something slip and having Anderson wonder how Adam had come to know so much about their circumstances.
Later, as the sergeant drove off, Adam watched from the window, thoughts caught up in further daydreams about his mother and Robin’s having a hat off, unable to walk side by side without risking taking out anybody within five metres’ range. Maybe Robin and he would make their union legal one day; the significance of standing up in front of friends and family, saying that they wanted to spend the rest of their lives together, couldn’t be underestimated. But they’d tackle that step if and when the time became right, and that conversation would have to include a bit about children. While Adam had quite enough of the creatures during his working day, it was possible Robin harboured a hankering to hear the patter of tiny feet, despite not having mentioned it up to this point.
They mustn’t let themselves end up like Helen and Stuart, making assumptions about what the other wanted. Never assume something based on no facts or only half the story. That’s what he always told his pupils—along with “never get in a car with a stranger, even if they say your mum sent them to get you.” He shuddered in remembrance of when he’d failed to take that vital piece of his own advice.
Don’t get into a car with a stranger. Always check that people are who they say they are. People pretend to be someone else online. Adam mentally scrolled through all the advice he gave his pupils. Nonetheless, plenty of adults failed to heed that advice, with disastrous consequences, as Robin’s present case showed. What a mess that had turned out to be; who knew what time he’d be returning this evening? The fretful text Robin had sent at lunchtime about his chief suspect disappearing didn’t bode well for any normality of life in the foreseeable future.
Adam was back in the kitchen, halfway through the washing-up, when a plaintive whimper from Campbell, who was looking down into his empty bowl, interrupted him.
“It’s no use you pretending that you didn’t get any dinner, because I filled that bowl up before Stuart arrived. You might have been able to fool him, but you can’t fool family.”
Or could you? Could the young woman Robin believed dead—what was her name? Penny? Pippa?—really have been impersonated by somebody else so convincingly that her family never twigged? Catphishing was a heartless business at the best of times, but that was perpetrated on strangers. He’d have to air his concerns to Robin, assuming the bloke got home early enough. Not that Adam wanted to sneer at the latest line of enquiry, but he couldn’t not make a suggestion that it wasn’t the family that were being duped, but other people. The independent observer had a habit of seeing what had become wallpaper to everyone else.
In the meantime, no amount of thinking was getting the washing-up done or completing the planning for the assembly he was taking the next morning.
Adam was just letting Campbell back in from his final garden visit of the evening when they heard Robin’s key in the lock. Time to dispense some TLC.
“Hard day?” Adam asked, helping his partner out of his jacket a minute later, a process inhibited by an affectionate Newfoundland attempting to lick his other master.
“You could say that.” Robin pecked Adam’s cheek, then scratched Campbell’s ear. “Spent it locking the stable door after the horse had bolted.”
“Bugger. Has your suspect upped sticks?”
“Yes. Or been forced to up them.”
“Want to talk about it, or would you rather not?”
“I wouldn’t mind. Because if I don’t, it’ll be buzzing around my head all night.” They headed for the lounge and flopped onto the sofa so that Robin could relax as he gave a résumé of his frustrating day. Adam needed to bring him up to speed about the conversation with Baxter too, although he couldn’t avoid the feeling it wouldn’t be welcomed.
“But you’re further forwards, surely,” Adam said, as the account came to an end with a stream of frustration that the police still had no inkling of where either Warnock or Sian were. “The fact she’s done a moonlit flit points at either her or this Warnock bloke having something to hide, and you’ve got the promising forensics from the house. What about the identity of the dead girl?”
“Still waiting for the absolute proof, but we’re working on it being Pippa. Why do you—” Robin, weary eyed and stifling a yawn, laid his hand on Adam’s arm. “Okay. What’s this about? You look like Campbell when he’s desperate to play fetch.”
“Earlier, while I was doing the washing-up, I was thinking about your case and this woman Sian. How clever do you think she is? How devious?”
“Very clever, I’d have said. I was going back through her witness statements, and it seems like she chooses her words with a lot of care. All that stuff around overhearing the conversation about ‘we have to stop’ and ‘we’re not hurting anyone’ would be in accord with whichever story Howarth and Bairstow told us. Affair or fakes.”
“I have literally no idea what you’re talking about, but I’ll take that as a yes on both counts.”
“Sorry.” Robin passed a tired hand over his brow. “I forget you’re not at all the team briefings.”
“I’ll assume that’s a compliment.” Deep-breath time. Was this the point at which Robin would think he’d got himself hitched to an obsessive? Or would he tell Adam to stop poking his nose in where it wasn’t wanted? “I know you’re knackered, but there are a couple of things I’d like to discuss.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It shouldn’t be.” Adam slipped off Robin’s shoes so he could rub his lover’s feet, then steeled himself. Time to mention the other business. “Baxter came to have a word when he arrived to collect Sophie. I warned him not to go on his own when he met the local radio reporter, so he had a witness to what he said. And to make sure he saw his contact’s identification.”
“That all seems very sensible. And that’s really good.” Robin shut his eyes as Adam caressed tense muscles.
“I still have the magic touch. I told Baxter not to mention the school too. Or me.”
Robin opened one eye. “Back there again?”
“Yes, we are. Baxter’s worried because the newspapers have been tapping up the detectorists, as well.” That made Robin open the other eye too. “Tuckton was offered a backhander by the same rag that’s running the ‘corrupt police’ campaign. Wanted inside info on the police who had interviewed him. He told them to piss off, so I guess they’re going to start offering their filthy lucre elsewhere. Like at Abbotston station.”
“You’re getting paranoid about the media. Ever since you saw that Chasebury tabloid story.”
“I’m not sodding paranoid.” Adam flung Robin’s foot from his lap. “I’m watching our backs. Somebody has to.” He got up. “If you want to hear what else I was going to say, then you can damn well whistle for it.”
Without waiting for a reply, Adam stormed out of the room, up the stairs, and into the bathroom, where he splashed some water on his face, then plonked himself onto the side of the bath. He’d hardly had the chance to think about his next move when a tentative knocking at the door and an, “Adam?” announced Robin’s arrival.
“What?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have called you paranoid. I’m an idiot. I am not worthy so much as to sharpen the pencils on your table. Anything else I need to say to get you to open this door?”
Adam, stifling a grin, unlocked the door and peered round it. “Pillock. You don’t deserve me sharing my bright idea with you.”
“I know I don’t.” Robin squeezed his hand. “But you’ll tell me anyw
ay.”
“Double pillock.” Adam returned the squeeze.
“Is it about Baxter?”
“No.” Adam pursed his lips. “Before I slander your chief suspect—although I’m not sure if it does count as slander if the victim’s a murderer—how cut and dried is your case? Got stuff that doesn’t add up?”
“How long have you got?” The words may have been jaded, but Robin’s body language was becoming less tired, despite his leaning against the doorjamb. “I had something crop up only today. A discrepancy on timings, which meant Sian either lied to us about when she started volunteering at Culdover, which was July, or about being there when the Community Payback people were tidying up the place, which was May. Is that gobbledygook like before?”
“Not quite as much.” Adam ran his hand down Robin’s shirt front. “Right, this may be a load of crap, but bear with me. Is it possible that Pippa’s not Pippa?”
Robin’s brows knit together. “Is this another bit of ‘your daddy’s not your daddy’ kind of thing?”
“No. Let’s start with Sian catphishing. Yes, she could maybe get away with keeping up Pippa’s online identity with the woman’s friends, especially if she gradually drifted apart from said friends. But the more I think about it, the more I can’t swallow Pippa’s family falling for it for that length of time, no matter how convincing the impersonator was. Didn’t anybody fly out and visit her at some point? Didn’t they talk on the phone?”
“Okay, okay.” Robin ran his hand over his brow. “You think we’re barking up the wrong tree thinking the dead woman is Pippa Palmer.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Hold on. Let me work this through.” Robin’s brow crinkled in thought. “If you’re right—if—that would mean the identification was a complete coincidence, that the victim had the same accident as Pippa did. And it would have to be another coincidence that the early indications are that the body was stored at Sian’s house, even if we can’t fix it as being the scene of death. Isn’t that stretching what’s believable?”
Two Feet Under (Lindenshaw Mysteries Book 3) Page 23
