Misery Shallows (DI Elizabeth Jewell Book 4)

by Carole Pitt

  'I'd like to read it before the next one lands on your doorstep,' Elizabeth said.

  'Gloves, first,' Daly reminded.

  She kept spares in her bag and handed another set to Patterson. 'Sorry, just eager to get on with it. We don't want this anonymous character to manipulate us. The sooner it's analysed the better.'

  Patterson pulled on the gloves. 'I'd say it's more likely to be genuine. We can track down internet maniacs, this won't be so easy.'

  Daly had slumped back in the chair. Elizabeth thought he looked worried. 'How did this person get my new address? Only a handful of people have it.'

  'You said you were extending the kitchen, did you need planning permission?' Patterson asked.

  'We didn't think so at first, but this place is grade two listed, so we did.'

  'This area would come under Stroud District Council,' Elizabeth added.

  Daly nodded. 'Difficult to deal with and it cost a fortune to get the plans through.' Elizabeth watched his face as it dawned on him. 'Of course, Stroud Council's planning application website. Just proves there's nowhere to hide anymore.'

  Elizabeth leaned forward and touched Daly's arm. 'You've been targeted for a specific reason. I suggest you think carefully about why this person feels it necessary to involve you. We're police officers, not everyone likes us. Now, if you don't mind Sir, I'd like to read it. Then we can decide how to proceed.'

  'I decide the next move. This goes no further than these walls,' Daly said.

  'Then why tell us?' Patterson asked.

  'In case anything happens to me.'

  'That's rather a dramatic statement,' she said. She knew Daly was worried but would never admit it. The most likely reason for the letter could be much simpler. At some point, he must have pissed someone off. She waited, hoping he might suggest it. She added weight to her hypothesis. 'Historically, most anonymous communications are sent directly to the police station. Everyone involved in the investigation needs to be aware of them, so they can watch their back in case anyone else becomes a target. We have no idea who we are dealing with and that's why I disagree with keeping it under wraps.'

  'I need a couple of days to follow up a few ideas. If I don't get anywhere then I'll go public.’ Daly said.

  Elizabeth smiled at him. 'From the very beginning this case hasn't made any sense. It also hasn't followed the course of a normal murder investigation, if there is such a thing. Why aren't I surprised? This whole affair is shrouded in mystery, as if it's been orchestrated that way.'

  'A good point,' Patterson said. 'Stage-managed even.'

  Daly carefully opened the envelope and removed a sheet of A4 printer paper folded in three and held it up. It was handwritten in biro.'

  'It's still better than a typed letter,' Patterson said. 'Those early word processors were impossible to identify, not like the old typewriters Agatha Christie used as a plot device in her novels. In one of them, can't remember the title, the killer overlooked the fact a typewriter has its own peculiar fingerprint.’

  Elizabeth reached out and Daly handed it over. She delved into her bag for her reading glasses. An idea came to her. 'We can eliminate certain people by doing a handwriting comparison. Let’s start with Carstairs, as long as he hasn't come back. He's older, more likely to hand write, keep a diary or scribble a shopping list.'

  Patterson dug out his phone. 'Not many people bother to hand write these days. They use their phone apps for lists.'

  Daly smiled. 'The wife uses one of those when she's planning a huge shop.'

  'We've got the first real lead in the case and we're stalling,' Elizabeth complained.

  'If Patterson doesn't mind Liz, I'd rather you read it first. You’re mentioned in there.'

  'Me. Why?'

  'Read it and find out,' Patterson said.'

  'I won't be able to concentrate in here so I'll read it in the kitchen.'

  'Be warned, it's hard to understand,' Daly said. 'The bloke who sent the damn thing wants us to burn our brains out trying to decipher it.'

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ she said and left the room.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  While Lillian searched for the photographs, Katie struggled to find something to cook. Okay, she told herself, whether they were relevant to the investigation or not wasn’t her decision. She had done her duty and asked to see them, always aware of how the smallest details often helped unravel the most complex cases. Twice, fearing Lillian had fallen asleep she'd started up the stairs only to come down again. Offering to help was a bad idea, in her demented state the woman might see it as police interference and call a halt. Becoming impatient was pointless when there was no guarantee of a result. She returned to the kitchen where she found four eggs in a china hen, a tin of baked beans and half a loaf of stale bread in a breadbin. She tore the slices into small pieces, scattered them outside for the birds and wondered where the freezer lived. As she wandered back, she noticed another exterior door that appeared half-open. She remembered the noises during the night. If this led into the house then someone could have walked in without anyone knowing. Katie held on to the door handle listening carefully for any signs of an intruder. All she could hear was a low hum, which sounded like a freezer. She pushed the door wide open and realised it was the back of the garage. Apart from an assortment of garden equipment and a large chest freezer there was very little else. The light switches were halfway between the unlocked garden door and the front exit and she tripped over a coiled hosepipe before reaching them. The overhead lights were powerful. The concrete floor had patches of dried oil, where she presumed Calvin Fowler had parked his car. When she tried the double garage doors and the side door leading into the house, she found they too were open. Mr Fowler, in his hurry to leave hadn’t bothered to lock up, exposing his wife and herself to anyone who cared to walk in. She spotted keys hanging on a board near a light switch. Once she’d secured the doors, she headed back the way she came and stared at the freezer hoping to find fresh bread. For the few seconds before she lifted the lid, she braced herself. Was she expecting to discover the chopped up remains of yet another victim? This place, combined with acute tiredness, she thought, had spooked her. The freezer was full, the basket area held three loaves, Katie grabbed one, slammed it shut and left, locking the last door and pocketing the key.

  Ten minutes later Katie stood at the bottom of the stairs and shouted. 'Food's ready.'

  Lillian didn't reply, nor did Katie hear any movement and the silence bothered her. Had she fallen and hurt herself? She tiptoed along the corridor until she reached her bedroom. Lillian Fowler sat on the bed clutching a carrier bag and sobbing, her tears dropping onto her nightdress leaving behind dark spots.

  'I've made breakfast,' Katie said.

  Lillian lay down on her side and curled up still holding on to the bag.

  'What's upset you?' Katie asked.

  'All the years,' Lillian cried. 'Seeing these pictures again reminded me of the day we first set eyes on Roxbury Farm. Just Calvin and me, they were happy days. I don't understand why everything’s changed. I don't deserve this; I've never hurt anyone. I let the hippies live on my land and they’ve treated me like shit, like my cheating husband so why this awful punishment? Will you please tell me why?'

  Katie could see she was hyperventilating and verging on hysteria. Her face had flushed to a dark pink and she was working herself up into a dangerous rage. Katie needed to calm her down before she lost control. She'd only spent a few hours with her and already the woman was driving her crazy. Calvin Fowler had probably chosen his destiny wisely. Find someone else and move out or end up killing his wife.

  'I don't know why. Most people go through bad times and it's not always a punishment. Life can be cruel and we have to learn to deal with it. This situation won't last forever so start today off by eating something. I imagine your blood sugar is extremely low.’ Katie helped her to her feet but Lillian shrunk away pressing the bag tightly to her chest.

  'I'm not lett
ing you see them,' she shouted.

  Katie hardened her voice. 'It's up to you; no one is forcing you to do anything against your will. If you've made up your mind it means I can go back to work right this minute, help someone who deserves it, instead of babysitting you.'

  'You only want them for evidence,' Lillian shouted again.

  'I did not use the word evidence. I asked you why you hadn't given them to the police.'

  'The case was closed down, that's why. The police had stopped searching for the Walkers. I saw pictures of them in the newspapers, everyone knew what that family looked like so what was the point? The police would have had hundreds of pictures of them.'

  Katie hadn't the energy to go over police procedure. 'I'm going to sit in the garden and drink my coffee and then I'm off.'

  Katie wondered why certain people affected your blood pressure. She could hear the pounding in her ears and her hands had started to sweat. Becoming a DC had given her more confidence but the downside of her promotion was her runaway enthusiasm that she found hard to curb. This woman had taxed her to the limit and she wanted out. Lillian Fowler was quite capable of taking care of herself.

  Half a dozen jackdaws had swooped to the far corner of the garden and were chasing a wood pigeon away from the breadcrumbs. Above their squawking, she heard increased activity coming from the site, raised voices and engines revving. From one broken up conversation it sounded as if more travellers had decided to leave rather than wait for the inevitable. She pulled her phone from her jeans' pocket and left a message for DI Jewell explaining the situation and that she would be back at Cordover Street within the hour. She gathered up her belongings and was about to throw away the cold food when Lillian Fowler came into the kitchen still hugging the carrier. Her swollen eyes and blotchy face almost made Katie feel guilty for abandoning her.

  'I'm going to phone Calvin,' she stated, 'and I'm going to pull myself together. Tell him I don't want him to come back, ever; even if he changes his mind over that nasty whore, he's living with. I'm selling this miserable house and I'm going to show you the photos.' She pushed the bag across the table.

  Katie opened her mouth to speak, but words failed her. Lillian had tied the carrier's handles in a tight knot making them difficult to undo. When she finally opened up the bag, the inside smelled musty and damp. As she pulled out the contents, some were stuck together.

  'Thank you,' she said to Lillian. 'I won't know what I'm looking at so you'll have to tell me who's who.

  Lillian nodded. 'Take your time, no hurry.'

  The photographs were assorted sizes. All old, those taken in the eighties had a pinkish patina that coated the image. Some were crumpled as well as faded but they appeared to be from the same era. Katie noted the fashions, it was pointless asking Lillian questions as she'd begun to eat and from the way she was stuffing toast into her mouth, was starving. Katie poured orange juice and wondered if this awful behaviour was all a ruse to gain attention. Lillian had stated she'd recognised the Walker family from newspaper articles but Katie only had her word for that. Her first task when she returned to Cordover Street would be to access whatever images she could from the press archives. Lillian could never have met the Walkers personally, as they'd already vanished long before she bought the property, so she must have told the truth about identifying them from the media.

  She picked up a large image, taken from a distance. Even without its present day extensions, she could see it was of Roxbury Farm. The paddock, apart from the trees, which weren’t as tall or as mature back then, looked much the same. The landscape had barely altered. She could just make out a small group of horses sheltering from the sun. The next image depicted a group of adults with small children. It all appeared so carefree, the colourful bandannas, floating shirts and skirts, surrounded by all the trappings of the hippie lifestyle. So long ago in a different era, Katie thought, with no premonition of the tragedy to come. She looked across at Lillian Fowler who appeared to be in a world of her own.

  She randomly picked up another photograph and held it up. 'Who are these people?' she asked.

  'I need to get my glasses but I don't know where I've put them.'

  'Where did you have them last?' Katie asked.

  'I can't remember.'

  'Listen Lillian, I need you to identify the Walker family first. If you don’t know the other people in these photos, that’s our job to find them if they’re still alive.'

  Lillian stared back, her eyes a steely cold. 'If I do, I'll be in danger.'

  Katie's first thought was she'd decided to play up again. She silently thanked DI Jewell for a thoroughly awful time. An older female constable would have coped better, especially someone who had a caring streak. When she caught Lillian's expression, she quickly changed her mind. No, Jewell deliberately chose me, which means she must have had her own suspicions about the hard faced woman sitting opposite her.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Elizabeth closed the kitchen door and sat at the table. She picked up the envelope and slid it into a Ziploc bag. Both the envelope and letter needed the attention of a qualified forensic document examiner for analysis. She remembered visiting one crime laboratory with a well-equipped documents unit. They used high tech machinery such as digital imaging with infrared and ultraviolet light sources among more specialised tools. One of the experts in the field explained to her that no one writes with machine-like precision every time. There were always variations in a person’s handwriting even within the same document. She'd taken the test, writing out her signature fifty times, then shown the slight discrepancies.

  Elizabeth was aware that sending a hand written letter to a senior police officer implied forensic awareness. Locard's exchange principal is very clear. Any perpetrator, however clever will leave behind traces and take others away. In the last five years, forensics had greatly advanced. Elizabeth remembered how difficult it was to test for DNA on rootless hairs. Now scientists could tell from such hairs whether it belonged to a living or deceased person.

  Forensic linguists had also come a long way, from sentence construction or even the use of certain words. She felt her excitement stir as she unfolded the cheap paper. Again, they'd be lucky to identify its source, from the poor quality she determined it was from a standard five hundred-page pack, sold in every supermarket in the country. Like the cheap blue biro, manufactured by the million.

  Without her glasses, she couldn't read the words but could see the unevenness, maybe he or she was hesitant at times and waited until the right words came. What would that tell a forensic linguist, that this person was possibly afraid? Staring at the letter brought no more ideas. It was at first glance just scribble. She put her glasses on and began to read.

  Careless whispers, winds of conspiracies. Every information leak blew into shallow waters until nothing incriminating remained. People moved around like wraiths, now you see them, now you don't. Conversations hung in the air but no one listened. Eventually everything settled deep into the sands of time.

  Daly,

  Forget Moore’s reference to 'The Ides of March', made to your good-looking DI. He claimed to be a pagan, his speciality exploiting the Pagan calendar. If you're not familiar with it, I'll remind you, Samhain, Beltane, both summer and winter Solstices. He used these dates to frighten his client's with outlandish predictions. In truth, he possessed limited psychic powers, however much the others revered him but he had a greater gift, a brain that soaked up information like a sponge. He accumulated knowledge.

  He was an actor too. He made everyone believe he was on the autism spectrum and a borderline genius. From his late teens, he’d made money helping those poor souls locked in fear and depression. Almost thirty years later Lillian Fowler went to him in desperation. Even her husband, Mr Big Shot Lawyer, consulted him. Neither of them realised his real motive for befriending them. He wanted the land saved for future generations of travellers and no further eviction threats.

  So Daly, until you exhume the truth you
're about to add to Gloucestershire Constabulary's long list of unsolved murders. Shame, because I read up on you. You’re impressive, but even a switched on cop like you, can't win them all. That would be greedy wouldn’t it? Perhaps it's time to leave the past alone, but then again, if you don't, who knows what might happen.

  The trouble is, every now and then I get this irresistible urge to help you out. You see, I suffer mixed emotions watching you lot stumbling about getting nowhere and I don't want to feel sorry for you, I'm not normally that generous. Everyone needs a leg up occasionally and that's why I’ve decided to enlighten you a bit.

  Had the Soothsayer lived, you wouldn't have received this. Because you're an old style copper with plenty of experience, I thought you'd appreciate me getting in touch. Police work has changed and not for the better. I bet you wish you were back in the old days, before DNA, before complex forensics. There was something to be said for that era when you could beat confessions out of your suspects. It must be hell now, with targets and political correctness slowly strangling you. I could go on, but too many clues often cause confusion and you’re already confused.

  Okay I relent. Here's a clue.

  Jeremiah Moore wanted to speak to your good looking DI again, but didn't get the chance, somebody made sure of that. I bet you're wondering what he wanted to tell her. Simple really, like all good witnesses, he'd remembered something.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  It was Patterson's turn for the letter. Elizabeth and Daly wandered into the back garden and she saw for the first time the monumental task he and his wife were facing. She estimated the overall length at three hundred feet to the farthest point where a naturally formed apex gave the area an unusual shape. Apart from patches of moss masquerading as lawn, the remainder resembled a jungle. Two silver birch trees were leaning at precarious angles and needed serious attention. The rest was a mixture of overgrown bushes that had seen better days and flowerbeds full of unhealthy looking plants. To brighten up a sombre spectacle, Mrs Daly had bought a large wooden table and six matching chairs, arranged on a patch of withered grass.