by Celina Grace
Nobody answered her ring on the doorbell. Kate, remembering what had happened earlier, tried again and again. Still nothing. She peered through the murky glass panes of the front door, trying to make out the inside of the house.
Stepping back, she yawned. Was it really worth continuing? Dorothy might very well be out, although – Kate glanced over at the car parked on the driveway – if she was, she must be on foot. She decided to have one last look around, and if she couldn’t see sight nor sign of Dorothy, then she was going home.
She sighed and began to walk towards the front lawn, which wrapped around the house in a smooth green semi-circle. Although as Kate could see, as she got closer, it wasn’t actually that smooth – in fact, the grass looked as though it hadn’t been cut in some time. The flowerbeds, whilst a riot of colour, were also thick with weeds. Kate worked her way around the front of the house, peering in through the gap in the curtains, trying to see into the dim interior of the house. It was hopeless, like peering into a murky fish tank.
Stepping back, her foot connected with something hard and she looked down to see a blue and white pottery mug tipped over on its side. What was that doing in the flowerbed? Kate set it on the edge of the lawn and in doing so, spotted another, no more than one – was it four? Four mugs of different designs, scattered throughout the flowerbed. Frowning, she lined them all up at the edge of the lawn, wondering if Dorothy had left them there. Had she just forgotten them? All four?
The silent house was beginning to give her the creeps. Kate walked quickly around the perimeter, peering in at the windows, and gave thanks that this house wasn’t overlooked by any neighbours. No doubt in a busy street, her suspicious behaviour would be reported to the police. How ironic...
She found the back door to the house, hidden away under a little porch. Boxes of empty glass jars, bottles and tins were piled up untidily either side of it. A mouldering heap of old carpet was slung against the back wall. The actual house itself looked quite neglected, now that Kate took a closer look at it. The paint was peeling from the rotting window frames and the mortar between the golden stone slabs was crumbling away. Too big a house for one elderly lady on her own, Kate thought, having visited many similar looking properties with similar occupants.
She sighed again and began to walk back around to the front. She may as well go home. It was beginning to get dark now, and she was feeling very tired. Not to mention poor Merlin shouldn’t go another night without his dinner being served at a reasonable time.
Kate made for the front door once more and tried the bell, just once more. She could hear it clattering away in the silent house. Nobody answered. Just on the off chance, she tried the front door handle and was surprised when it turned under her palm.
Kate stood there before the open door, wondering what to do. Should she go in? She cast a longing look back to her car, thinking of how much she’d like to go home right now, and then pushed the door open a little further.
“Councillor Smelton? Dorothy? Are you there?”
No answer. Kate stepped forward into the spectacularly untidy hallway. “Dorothy? Mrs Smelton? Are you there? It’s me, Detective Sergeant Redman...”
A few steps into the hallway and Kate stopped. The silence pressed down upon her like a thick, grey blanket. She found herself holding her breath. She could see what had to be the kitchen at the end of the hallway, the edge of a table, a chair. She tried calling one more time, turned her head to look into the drawing room at the front of the house and gasped.
Dorothy Smelton lay half on and half off of the Chesterfield sofa, her face turned into the back of the chair, one arm hanging downwards, her fingers almost brushing the floor. As Kate ran forward, she heard a crunch as she dropped to her knees by the sofa and felt the disintegration of something small and round beneath her kneecap. She could see Dorothy was dead, just by the colour of her skin, her stillness, the vacancy that sucked at the air around her, but still Kate pressed her fingers against Dorothy’s neck. No pulse beat beneath her hand and she could feel what little residual warmth that remained in the body ebbing away.
Slowly, because she was shaking a little, Kate got up and brushed away the crushed pill that had stuck to her knees. Looking around, she could see more pills scattered all about the sofa. A half empty bottle of brandy or whisky, some sort of brown spirit, stood a little way away, with an overturned glass beside it. Kate looked for a note but there was nothing she could see. She tried to recall what Dorothy had been wearing earlier that day, when she’d chased Kate off her property. It was hopeless; she couldn’t recall a thing. Was that why Dorothy had pretended not to know her? Because she’d decided to kill herself and didn’t want anyone stopping her?
Taking a few deep breaths, her head swimming from the brandy fumes rising from the carpet, Kate knew she could do nothing more for poor Dorothy now. Nothing except one thing. She dialled Anderton’s number and waited for him to answer, thoughts of a romantic nature utterly forgotten.
*
Five hours later, the powerful arc lights of the Scene of Crime Team dyed the walls of Dorothy Smelton’s living room blue-white. The unforgiving light showed all of the disorder in which Dorothy had obviously been living. The high ceilings were webbed with thick ropes of grey cobweb and dust, fluff and other assorted minuscule scraps lay in clumpy heaps by the skirting board.
Kate stood over to the side of the room, with Anderton at her side and Olbeck on the other. They hadn’t said much on meeting, and Kate was glad that Anderton had made no attempt to give her so much as a meaningful glance. Not that he could have done that in front of Olbeck but... Kate hoped he wouldn’t try to murmur something in her ear or even touch her. It just wouldn’t be appropriate, not in this sad setting.
He showed no signs of doing anything like that, though. Instead, he’d shaken his head on first seeing Dorothy’s body, which was now being examined by Andrew Stanton.
“No note, I suppose?” he’d asked Kate on arrival.
“Not that I could see. I haven’t had a really good look around, though.”
Anderton glanced around him in distaste. “Well, you’d have your work cut out here.”
Now, Olbeck bestirred himself and said “They don’t always leave a note, do they?”
Anderton shook his head again. “No. Half the time they don’t.” He sighed and said “Well, it’s likely we don’t even need to be here.” He looked as if he were about to shout a question to Dr Stanton but obviously thought better of it. Andrew Stanton could be quite tetchy if interrupted at the wrong time. “Suppose we’d better have a look around while we’re here and waiting.”
The three of them were already suited and gloved, as was standard procedure for a potential crime scene. Kate decided she would tackle the upstairs rooms, leaving the two men to look downstairs. She felt it wise to be far away from Anderton at that point in time. There was no point putting temptation in either of their ways.
The stairs in Dorothy’s house were wide, with a shallow tread, a carved wooden banister running up one side, a filthy carpet runner cascading down the middle. Kate climbed, feeling rather depressed. Suicides always filled her with a horrible sense of emptiness. It was hard to contemplate, the fact of someone’s unhappiness being so great that the only way they could see to escape it was to kill themselves. Was that why Dorothy had been so odd when Kate had seen her earlier? Could that really only have been this morning? It seemed like a week ago. Kate yawned, wondering how long they would have to remain here. If it was a genuine suicide – and why wouldn’t it be? – it wouldn’t be the team’s problem.
Kate stopped at the entrance to what was clearly Dorothy’s bedroom, frowning. She’d just had a thought, but it had been so brief and so quick that now she couldn’t recall what it was. I’m just too tired, she thought, yawning again, and went into the room.
It had probably once been a very lovely room, country-charming, with the walls papered in a floral pattern; tiny sprigs of white roses intertwined with b
luebells, pale silver stripes running down between the flowers from floor to ceiling. The little dormer window showed a vista of varying shades of green; hills and valleys and the tiny glittering thread of the river Avon in the distance. But the room itself was cluttered and filthy, the wooden floors scuffed and stained, marked and dust-strewn. The wallpaper around the light switch by the door was black with grease. The yellowing bedclothes looked as though they hadn’t been changed in a month.
Kate stood, wrinkling her nose and trying not to judge. Had Dorothy been ill? Or was she just elderly and forgetful, and housekeeping was one of those things that had slipped? She’s just killed herself, woman. If Dorothy had suffered from depression, all this mess and disorder was entirely understandable.
Kate headed for the little bathroom, which was in a similar state to the bedroom. Forcing open the rusty catch of the little bathroom window, Kate took a deep, grateful gulp of the night air flowing in through the gap between wall and window. There was a little medicine cabinet above the dirty sink and Kate opened it cautiously. There were a plethora of medicine bottles and packets all jumbled together on the narrow shelves. Kate recognised some of the brand names but not the others. She checked her gloves were on properly and took up a couple to read the labels.
Donepezil. Kate read it again. It meant nothing to her. She read another, this time recognising a brand of anti-depressants. That bottle looked new and unopened. Pondering, she picked up the bottle of Donepezil and took it downstairs.
Andrew Stanton was just zipping up his black bag. Kate took a quick look at Dorothy’s body. It was strange, but there was a moment after death – and it varied from corpse to corpse – where for a short time the person really did look as though they could be sleeping. As if a touch would wake them. If the death had been relatively peaceful of course, Kate corrected herself. But then there came a point where the illusion no longer stood. The dead became truly dead. The person who’d once inhabited that body was gone, indisputably gone, and that had happened to Dorothy now. Kate, looking at her dead face, knew she wasn’t there anymore.
“Andrew—”
“Oh, hi, Kate. I didn’t even realise you were here.”
“I’ve been upstairs. I found these in the bathroom cabinet.” Out of the corner of her eye, Kate saw Anderton and Olbeck enter the room, both empty-handed and looking tired. “Do you know what it is?”
Andrew glanced at the little brown bottle Kate was holding out. “Donepezil? Sure. It’s a cholinesterase inhibitor.”
Kate gave him a look. “Which means?”
“Oh, it’s used in the treatment of Alzheimer’s. Sorry, that’s a bit of a misnomer, it’s not a treatment. There isn’t such a thing, unfortunately. But it’s given to sufferers to help relieve some of the symptoms.”
Kate looked again at Dorothy’s dead face. “She had Alzheimer’s?”
“I don’t know. I can’t tell from a preliminary investigation. We’ll have a better idea at the PM.” Andrew threw an eloquent look at the chaos surrounding them. “Judging by the state of this place, it’s not beyond the realms of possibility, is it?”
The other two officers had reached them by now. All four of them took another look at the dead body on the sofa, more neatly arranged by Andrew Stanton.
“I suppose that’s as good as a note,” Olbeck said sadly.
No one contradicted him. Instead, they stood in a little bubble of silence, busy with their own thoughts, as the bustle and hubbub of the investigation went on around them.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Kate slept deeply that night, untroubled by dreams of Dorothy or Tin or Anderton. She awoke to her curtains outlined in bright sunlight and the warmth of Merlin draped over the hump of her feet under the covers. Kate blinked herself awake, wondering why she was feeling an uneasy mix of anticipation and foreboding.
The anticipation was easy to track down. Hadn’t Anderton said something about going out for dinner tonight? Kate smiled to herself. Was this actually going to turn into a relationship? Should it? Could it? Thoughts of Tin tried to muscle their way in, but it was easy to dismiss them. Perhaps it was wrong, but the memory of her ex-boyfriend seemed to be fading into sepia – black and white, even – while the corporeal reality of Anderton stood out in blazing technicolour.
Kate got up and began her morning routine: shower, hair-wash, wrapped in her new White Company robe (a present to herself in an attempt to cheer herself up after things fell apart with Tin. You couldn’t go far wrong with some luxurious new nightwear, in Kate’s opinion). She went downstairs, fed a noisily mewing Merlin, and sat down to eat her breakfast.
The anticipation of the evening to come dimmed as the sense of foreboding grew. What was wrong? The itch of a nagging, unfocused thought was back again, scratching at her brain. Kate downed the last of her coffee and tried to collect herself.
It was a beautiful morning, the sky a cool, clear blue, the sun shining brightly. Kate lowered her driver-side window down further, as she drove to work, and enjoyed the breeze on her face. It was a day for a picnic or a trip to the beach, not a day to be stuck in a stuffy office, going over and over the same evidence, trying to find something that would help. Oh well. She had the evening with Anderton to look forward to. Immediately her thoughts pinged guiltily to Tin. Did he miss her? Was he regretting his decision?
Are you regretting yours, Kate? She considered it as she swung the car into the station car park and finally decided, with some relief, that she didn’t. This thing with Anderton was an added distraction though...but it was such a nice one...
“Kate!” Theo’s voice made her jump. “Wake up, woman. It’s all kicking off, here.”
“What is?” Kate hurriedly tried to pull herself together.
“Melanie Houghton’s been arrested again. She’s in with Anderton now.”
“Oh, he did it then,” Kate exclaimed. “Has anything new come in?”
Theo looked puzzled. “Don’t think so.”
“No new evidence at all?”
“Nope. Not that I’m aware of.”
“Oh.” Kate reached her desk and sat down, shrugging off her light cardigan. She pushed her hands through her hair and wondered where to begin. “You’ve heard about Dorothy Smelton, I suppose?”
“Yeah. Poor old cow. Stanton’s office emailed to say they’d be doing the PM in a couple of days, but unless something turns up, it’s not really our problem.”
“No,” Kate agreed, but absently. She was feeling that little twist of anxiety that she’d felt for the past few days. You’re overwrought, she told herself. Too much emotional turmoil. It’s nothing to do with the Farraday case.
Wasn’t it? Kate retrieved her notes and began to read through them again. She found the notes of the phone call she’d made yesterday and the answer to the question she’d asked. She leant back in her chair, frowning, and thrust her hands into her pockets, reading and re-reading what she’d written.
There was a twist of paper in her pocket, underneath her fingers. She drew it out and unfolded it, seeing it was the note she’d scribbled herself – a single word – when the thought had occurred to her before. She’d written it two days ago, before she’d gone to see Dorothy for the first time. Poor Dorothy. Kate read the one pencilled word on the scrap of paper. Trap. Then she sighed heavily, crumpled it up and threw it onto the surface of her desk. Whatever flash of inspiration she’d had was gone, completely gone.
The morning passed in a blur of paperwork. Kate took a break after several hours and fetched herself a tuna salad and a cup of tea from the station canteen. She was passing by Theo’s desk after her lunch when she spotted something in his in-tray that she’d been meaning to have a look at.
“Can I borrow this?” she asked, picking up the flimsy cardboard folder with the logo of the Land Registry stamped upon it.
Theo shrugged. “Be my guest, mate.”
“This is all the Farraday property, is it? Or just the town house?”
“It’s
all of them. I think.” Theo yawned. “God, I need a coffee. Want one?”
Kate declined his kind offer and took the folder back to her desk. Leafing through it, she could see her suspicions had been correct. Simon Farraday’s name was the only one on all the property deeds.
Was that usual? For all Kate knew, it was a totally legitimate tax fiddle, if that wasn’t a contradiction in terms. She needed a lawyer’s opinion. Was it worth making a few phone calls? She looked again at the pile of reports awaiting her notice and groaned inwardly. Too much to do and not enough time to do it, and God damn it, why did she feel so uneasy, and what was it that kept bothering her? Kate swore and threw her pen across the room.
“Kate!!” Anderton’s shout made her jump. She saw both Chloe and Theo look up at the sound of his voice.
“Sorry, I was just—”
“You could have someone’s eye out.” Anderton’s tone belied his stern words. “Anyway, have you got a minute?”
“Sure.” Kate got up and sauntered over to the doorway, as if she didn’t have a care in the world. She was impressed with herself. I should be on the stage, she thought, marvelling how easy it was to put on an act.
An act... There was another itchy thought there, but the presence of Anderton in his closed-door office drove it away. He didn’t kiss her this time but his gaze made it very clear that that was on the cards later.
“So, how about meeting at my club after work? You know where it is, right?”
Kate had eaten there with him before. She approved his choice – it was luxurious and discreet.
“Didn’t you say you can get rooms there?” she asked, surprised at her boldness.
Anderton smiled lazily. “I most certainly did.”
“Oh, good.” Kate wondered whether she had the nerve to reach out and kiss him herself and decided to prolong the delicious anticipation just a little more. “I’ll see you there at – what? Seven?”
