* * *
Gordon Mitchell was relaxing in his back garden when the call came through on his mobile phone. He glanced at the caller display and grimaced. His wife, Marilyn, was dozing in her recliner chair, her swollen pregnant stomach gently rising and falling in time with her snores. Their two sons were quiet for once, lying on a rug and reading books about space flight, in keeping with their latest choices of future careers: pan-galactic space warriors. Last month it had been yeti hunters. Gordon pressed the receive button as he walked into the cool shadow of the house.
‘Yes, Tony?’
He listened quietly to the requests, becoming increasingly annoyed as his employer’s series of demands mounted. That harsh, grating voice was fast ruining what had been a very pleasant Saturday afternoon.
‘Of course,’ he said as the caller finished. ‘Leave it with me. Bye.’
Gordon poured himself another glass of chilled fruit juice and returned to his seat in the garden. He sometimes felt like cursing the day, eight years before, when he’d first found himself working for the Woodruffs. He’d been drinking heavily, gambling too much and getting into debt. The offer of work from Phil Woodruff and Tony Sorrento had provided a way out of the impasse facing him at the time, particularly since his largest debt had been with a gambling club they owned. Once they’d discovered his background in legal support work, the solution was obvious. He took the job they offered and felt extremely grateful at the time. But now? At times he felt like a trapped animal, unable to extricate himself from the tangled net of dodgy contracts, shady deals and dubious agreements that formed a large part of his work for the family business. And he’d developed a real flair for it, a knack of spotting ways to swing deals on the cheap. At least they’d never asked him to do anything violent, but he knew full well that his working life revolved around activity that teetered on the edge of criminality. He still marvelled at the way he’d managed to keep it all hidden from his family. Marilyn thought he worked for a legitimate property company. His elderly parents held him up as a paragon of virtue. If only they knew.
He glanced across at Marilyn, just beginning to stir from her slumber, and his two sons, still intently studying their space explorer books. Whatever happened in the coming years, they must be protected, kept in the dark about the true nature of the employment that kept them in such a comfortable lifestyle. He walked back into the house, starting the series of phone calls that would result in a new vehicle for Sorrento at the end of the week. As if Tony couldn’t show some patience and wait a bit longer. But no, everything had to be done now, with a vehicle that matched his exact specification. No delay, no understanding that he, Gordon, might want a weekend free of work-related concerns in order to spend some precious time with his family. Just the usual, self-centred attitude from the gang’s hard man, a man it was wise not to cross. Not if you valued your health and well-being.
The calls took well over an hour, spent wheedling with a series of bad-tempered individuals, all angry at being summoned from their leisure activities. Finally Gordon put down the phone and sighed. All done. But he still couldn’t understand the need for so much hurry to replace the vehicle. Unless Sorrento had done something silly. He wondered if Wayne Woodruff knew about it. Maybe he should do a little bit of gentle stirring. He called Wayne.
Ten minutes later he made a pot of tea and took it out to the garden where his wife was now awake and reading. She smiled gratefully and blew him a kiss as he deposited the tray on the low table beside her.
‘Biscuits and lemonade, boys,’ he called.
* * *
Marilyn had been awake for far longer than her husband suspected. She’d been watching him though her half-closed eyelids, observing his nervous pacing in and out of the house. She knew a lot more about his work than he thought and, more importantly, the kind of people he worked for. And she knew that he had been on the phone to that hard man, Tony Sorrento. She’d been checking Gordon’s mobile phone for some months now, reading his text messages, looking at his call logs and noting his contacts. And she’d discovered the nature of the work he did for his employers. At first she’d been dismayed and had wondered if they still had a future together. But, at heart, she still believed Gordon to be a good man. He idolised her and the two boys, and nothing seemed to be too much trouble for him as far as his family was concerned. She’d tracked back through their early married life and beyond, and spotted that his current employment had begun at a time when he’d been at a real low point. She was sure that at any other time in his life he wouldn’t have touched a job offer from the Woodruffs with a barge pole.
She sighed and reached for the cup of tea that Gordon had placed beside her. He was unhappy and deeply so, she could see that. She could also see that he’d dearly love to find a way out of the clutches of the Woodruffs. Maybe that could be her role in life, rescuing her husband from his near enslavement, like a latter-day Fidelio. A smile came to her face with the thought. Marilyn Mitchell, fantasy heroine of the operatic stage. And five months pregnant.
CHAPTER 9: Tickled Toes
Monday Morning, Week 2
‘Just here, look. There’s a contusion to the back of the skull.’
Sophie looked at the position indicated by Benny Goodall’s latex-encased finger. ‘How significant? Would it have caused loss of consciousness or even dazing?’
The pathologist took a step back from the corpse of Ted Armitage. ‘It would have made him see stars and resulted in extreme dizziness if nothing else. But at his age, there’s a good chance that he’d have been reduced to unconsciousness, if only for a short time.’
‘How obvious is it? What I mean is, could it have been missed if we’d assumed suicide and not been suspicious?’
‘It’s possible, I suppose. I don’t think I’d have missed it, but . . .’
‘Others might have?’
Goodall shrugged. ‘We’re all overworked, Sophie. We all find ways of cutting corners just to make our lives a bit more tolerable.’
‘But some cut corners more than others?’
There was no response.
‘What about the blood tests?’
‘Slight traces of sedatives in both of them.’
‘So they might have been drugged?’ Sophie said. ‘Then hauled out to the car, driven to that spot and the car rigged up to pour exhaust fumes in. So were their deaths due to carbon monoxide poisoning?’
‘The signs seem to point that way, yes. It’ll be another couple of days until we get back the accurate blood tests. That should be definitive, and give us the exact amount of sedative in their bloodstreams and should also allow us to extrapolate the carbon monoxide levels back to their approximate time of death. Then you’ll be in a better position to draw definite conclusions.’
‘But it’s all pointing one way, isn’t it, Benny?’
He nodded. ‘Sadly, yes. Normally we’d have spotted the visual signs from their skin colour, but with the condition they were in, that was difficult.’ He paused. ‘When’s the daughter arriving to identify the bodies?’
‘Later this morning, when her surgery’s finished.’ Sophie looked across at Sylvia’s body. ‘You’ll tidy them up, won’t you Benny? She might be a doctor, but seeing them in this state would send her over the edge.’
‘Of course. My staff are pretty skilled at camouflage.’
‘What will you do if she asks to see their full bodies, like this, rather than just the normal head view?’
‘Is that likely, even if she is a doctor? What would be the point?’
‘Better to be prepared. I think I might stay, if that’s okay. I’d like to be here to see her reaction. By the way, are there any clues as to how the sedatives were introduced? Pills? Or by spiked drinks? Maybe even an injection?’
‘It’s impossible to say. The skin tissue has started decomposing so we wouldn’t be able to spot the tell-tale signs of any recent injections. As to the other methods, it’s unrealistic after this amount of time.’
&
nbsp; Sophie frowned. ‘Okay. Sedatives would be easy for a doctor to get hold of, and administer as well. The parents would trust her, wouldn’t they?’
‘Possibly. So you think this might put her in the frame?’
‘All options open, Benny. Let’s have a coffee and wait. I’ve bought a pack of new stuff for you. Martin says it’s the best instant coffee he’s tasted recently. Worth a try? I’ve promised to tie him up and tickle his toes if he’s wrong.’
Goodall looked aghast. ‘And that’s a punishment? What would you do for a reward?’ He covered his ears and closed his eyes. ‘No, don’t tell me. I couldn’t handle it.’
* * *
Sharon Giroux arrived an hour later with her husband. She was pale and seemed slightly unsteady on her feet. Sophie left the mortuary assistant to take charge and guide the small group into the viewing room. She stood back against the wall in order to watch the couple as they approached the two bodies. Sharon turned and nodded as each head was momentarily uncovered. Sophie then left the room in order to leave the bereaved couple alone with the dead parents. She stood outside, waiting for when they came out.
Sophie laid a hand on Sharon’s arm. ‘Is there anything I can do, Sharon? You must be feeling devastated by all this.’
The reply came as a whisper. ‘I feel lost. They were always there, always in the background. They were the reason I am what I am. And now? I just feel adrift.’
‘You need to know that we’re treating the deaths as suspicious.’
‘What?’ Sharon stumbled and grabbed hold of her husband’s arm.
‘The pathologist picked up several irregularities. Nothing is certain yet because he hasn’t got the results of all the tests, but it’s looking increasingly likely. I don’t want to waste any time, so I’ve already launched a murder investigation, although that fact won’t be released to the press until tomorrow when the final blood test results are back with us.’
Pierre looked puzzled. ‘Why blood tests?’
‘We’re fairly sure they were sedated.’
Sharon almost exploded. ‘I knew it! I knew there was something wrong. I tried for days to convince those two clowns, Blackman and McCluskie, but they didn’t believe me.’
‘They followed standard procedure, Sharon. I checked when I took over. All police forces have a policy in place. Missing children are treated very differently, but with adults who are not deemed to be at risk there’s always leeway given at first, simply because so many are just away for a day or two with good reason. I can understand why you feel angry and frustrated but remember what I told you. Your parents had already been dead for well over a week when you reported them missing.’ Sophie was hiding her own feelings about the mishandled early stages. One thing was for sure, Blackman and McCluskie hadn’t heard the end of the matter.
‘I’ll need to visit your brother, Sharon. Is he likely to be in later this morning?’
‘It’s probable. He tends not to get out of bed until nearly noon, so I’d say that the chances are good.’
‘Who inherits, Sharon? Have you had a chance to find out if they left a will?’
‘Not yet. I know they did leave one, and it will be with their solicitors, but I don’t know the details. I think Rod and I inherit, along with something for Uncle Pete. They really appreciated his help in trying to keep Rod on the straight and narrow, so they always told us that he’d get something.’
* * *
‘I’ve told all this stuff to those other two plods. They were here a couple of days ago.’
‘Did I hear you use the word plods, Mr Armitage?’ Sophie looked coldly at the dishevelled man standing in his doorway. He was attempting to tuck a grubby shirt into even grubbier jeans while holding onto a mug of tea. Barry Marsh stood to one side. ‘Do you think it’s a wise choice of words to use? I’m the SIO for this case. I can make life easier or more difficult for you, largely depending on the mood I find myself in. Words like that don’t make me feel especially well-disposed. Maybe you’d like to rephrase?’
‘Sorry,’ Rod muttered. ‘Those two other detectives. And the uniformed ones who called on Friday. That’s all it seems to be. Questions and then more questions. And now you arrive. That’ll mean more questions, won’t it?’
Sophie nodded. ‘Yes it will. But that’s the only way we’ll make any progress. Can we come in?’
She didn’t wait for an answer but pushed past Rod into his small living room, Barry Marsh following close behind. The place was still moderately tidy following the search of a couple of days earlier. Sophie turned to Rod.
‘I heard about how my two fellow detectives did an unpaid cleaning job for you. They’ll be glad to hear that you’ve kept it more or less tidy since then.’
Rod merely shrugged and dropped into a nearby armchair. Sophie chose to sit on a hard-backed chair set to one side, with Marsh sitting beside her, notebook in hand. The sofa looked too stained to risk her clothes.
‘So, Rod, you’ve had plenty of time to reflect on what you’ve already told my fellow officers and think about its accuracy. What day was it you saw your parents for that evening meal?’
‘The Tuesday, nearly three weeks ago. I’m sure of it now.’
‘And you said that you all had Spaghetti Bolognese to eat, is that right?’
He nodded.
‘What clothes were your parents wearing, Rod? Start with your mum.’
Rod looked blank. ‘How d’you expect me to remember something like that?’
‘What about your dad? You told the others that he came in from the garden just before you ate. Was he in old clothes?’
‘I think so.’
‘The local weather records show it was raining lightly in Blandford for the first part of that evening. Was he in a jacket when he came in?’
Rod shut his eyes and grimaced, as if it was asking a lot of him to make him concentrate in this way. ‘Yeah. He had an old jacket on, a sort of greeny colour. He hung it on the back of the kitchen door, I think.’
‘And underneath?’
Rod shook his head. ‘I can’t remember.’
‘How did you sit at the table? Who was where?’
A pause. ‘I sat opposite Mum. Dad was at the top. He might have had a blue jumper on.’
‘What about your mum? Can you remember anything now?’
‘She might have been in blue as well. She was talking about her new jeans, I think.’
‘How does she make her Bolognese? Was it ready prepared or does she make her own? You told my two colleagues that it wasn’t one of your favourites but that your dad liked it. Is that right?’
Rod nodded. ‘Mum makes her own, though she uses a jar of sauce. Dad gets on to her about making it properly with purée and other stuff, but she stands her ground.’
‘What did you talk about? Other than the money that you borrowed, I mean.’
‘Nothing much. Dad’s a man of few words, and most of them are complaints.’
‘TV programmes, maybe? Their plans for the summer?’
‘If you must know, they spent most of the time talking about Sharon and how she might be enjoying her bloody holiday in Cornwall. That’s all it ever is, all the fucking time. Sharon, Sharon, Sharon. How wonderful she is, how wonderful her kids are. What a lovely house she has. How important her job is. What a great husband she’s got. It drives me fucking mental.’
Sophie watched silently as he sank back into his chair and closed his eyes. There had been real venom in Rod’s voice. Interesting, and worth following up. Was it just envy of a higher-achieving sibling, or did it go deeper?
‘How much money did you borrow from your mother, Rod?’
‘I’ve already told your lot that. Fifty pounds.’
Sophie nodded. ‘It’s just that we noticed she’d taken five hundred pounds out of her savings account earlier that day. And you paid an overdue rent bill for that amount at about the same time.’
‘Okay. It was five hundred, ’cause I needed it, otherwise I’d have los
t this place.’
‘So why didn’t you tell us that to start with?’
Rod sighed. ’cause I didn’t want Sharon finding out. She’d never let me forget it.’
‘Did you speak to your parents at any later time? Even by phone?’
‘No.’
‘Did you try? Did you phone and maybe fail to get an answer?’
‘Yeah, later in the week.’
‘Go on.’
‘Mum was still worried that I might be kicked out of here ’cause the landlord had threatened me with it before. So I tried to call her and let her know I was okay. But the phone just rang.’
‘There’s an answer machine at their house. Why didn’t you leave a message for her?’
‘I don’t know. I hate the bloody things so maybe that’s the reason. I s’pose Dad might have picked up on it, or even Sharon.’
‘It would be helpful if you could remember the day, Rod. We’d have a clearer idea of the sequence of events. So?’
Rod ran his fingers through his untidy hair. ‘Christ. You’re stressing me out. Maybe the Friday or Saturday. I don’t know.’
TWISTED CRIMES a gripping detective mystery full of suspense Page 6
