'Til Death (DI Steven Marr Book 1) - UK Crime Fiction Whodunnit Thriller

by SP Edwards

  ‘That’s not what I asked, though, is it?’

  Marr sighed, knowing that he was probably about to rattle some cages.

  ‘No, I don’t think she did it. She was having an affair with Greg, and I don’t doubt that she wanted to keep him, maybe even steal him, but I don’t think she’d have killed Anna to get him.’

  ‘What do the parents think?’

  ‘They didn’t seem to think it was likely.’

  ‘Which means they think it was, doesn’t it? One of them would’ve swung for you if not.’

  Marr nodded.

  ‘Tough call.’ Brooke said. ‘Well, not tough as in our workload. This one’s done: ship it off, get the paperwork done and everyone down to the pub. A tragic murder-suicide, albeit with a two day break in the middle. And yet,’ he continued, taking Marr’s expression in, ‘I get the sense you won’t let it go gently into the good night.’

  Marr shook his head.

  ‘So, if she didn’t do it, who did? And more to the point, why the fuck would she kill herself if she wasn’t the killer?’

  ‘Well, if she didn’t kill Anna, I’m assuming that she didn’t kill herself.’

  ‘But then, why murder Caroline if she didn’t kill Anna?’

  ‘If she found out, she might have tried to contact the murderer herself. She had a burner cell: maybe she tried to meet the actual killer. Becky’s working on the burner phone at the moment.’

  Brooke looked around, but the Sergeant’s desk was empty.

  ‘Well, you can have another forty-eight hours on it, Steve – it’s not like the poor girl’s getting any deader. I’m pulling you from the case after that. Oh, and be very, very careful about getting anybody’s hopes up. The last thing they want to do is spend the next week working on closure ad you to blunder in saying ‘well, we’re not actually sure.’

  ‘Delicately put, sir.’ Marr said.

  ‘You’re most welcome. Alex!’ he said, diverting his attentions to the Constable, who was working at his desk, ignoring their conversation in a way that only a man listening to every word could.

  ‘Where’s the missus?’

  Alex smiled. Marr had always got the impression Alex didn’t like pretending he wasn’t married whilst at work. Good old Brooke and his lack of formality.

  ‘Gone to Warren Street to sort out the burner phone, sir.’

  ‘Why the fuck has she gone to London? We’ve got a phone shop in town!’

  Marr smiled, before re-telling the story of the Street family, and their unusual attitude when it came to naming their children.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Sam had decided to keep out of the office, so accompanied Becky on the drive into town.

  ‘Nothing I like better than a good phone shop in the morning.’

  Becky looked towards Sam’s Blackberry.

  ‘With all due respect, ma’am, you could probably do with an upgrade yourself.’

  ‘Nope. Phonecalls, e-mail and text messages and nothing else. No films, no songs, no tools that scratch my arse when I can’t be bothered to do it myself.’

  ‘A nice image, thanks for that.’

  ‘My pleasure. Anyway, we stare at screens all day, why the hell would you want to go home and look at another one?’

  ‘21st century girl’ Becky replied, ‘All tech, all the time. So-cal startups, cloud storage and 24/7 social metric access.’

  ‘I don’t have a clue what you’ve just said. Give me a pint of Carlsberg and a good book any day.’

  ‘You know, you can read books on your phone now.’

  Sam smiled.

  ‘Yes, I was aware of that, thank you. I’m not that old. I am old enough, however, to know that Kindles have fixed a problem that wasn’t there in the first place. No; a big old paperback, please: if I can’t use it as a paperweight, I don’t care.’

  ‘Give it ten years, and the tech will be doing most of our jobs.’

  Sam sighed. That, she couldn’t argue with. Sam did prefer to avoid technology where possible, but there was no denying that social media was by far the most effective way of breaking news these days. Within minutes of anything occurring, videos and audio clips were uploaded to Twitter or Facebook, instantly searchable and accessible by thousands of people. It was little wonder that traditional news outlets that hadn’t adapted were dying off: social media did the work of fifty reporters.

  Hell, sat in one of the offices at the station was a Detective specifically hired to monitor the web for leads. Laura Perrott spent eight hours at a time peering through social accounts, monitoring leads and links and inspecting web traffic on graphs Sam couldn’t understand.

  What was most annoying was that it worked so well. Just last month, a burglar had gone onto a forum bragging about a job he’d pulled. Unfortunately, he’d left his Twitter account signed on, and the two had automatically linked up. Laura caught it, and he was arrested twenty minutes later, the haul still in his front room.

  Sure, they weren’t going to start catching experienced hackers, but a lot of the UK’s less than intelligent criminals were a long way from being web savvy.

  Older cops like Brooke, meanwhile, definitely didn’t like the idea of the tech, but they did care about results. So, if it worked – and it often did – they’d use it.

  Sam was happy being a dinosaur for the time being.

  ‘So, the boss is having a baby,’ Becky said, interrupting Sam’s train of thought.

  Sam nodded.

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘Big news.’

  ‘Well, for him, yes.’

  ‘Lizzie too, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Sam had never meant to tell Becky.

  She’d never meant to tell anybody, really. Maybe a girlfriend or two if what was going on had lasted. And then, one too many glasses of wine at a bar after a twelve hour shift, she’d just come out with it. Becky definitely hadn’t asked.

  Sam had done it with the air of someone who felt guilty, but the truth was just that she was absolutely bursting to tell someone: it was a real load off.

  Why Becky? Well, the obvious answer was that she’d been there. But really, Sam couldn’t think of anyone better to tell. Sensible, reasonable, non-judgmental Becky. Sure, if you were being cynical, you could say that Becky was a rival for promotion. If you were being non-cynical, Marr was friendly with her, and Sam was asking her to pick sides.

  So, not Sam’s proudest moment.

  But, despite all that, Becky was a friend. Even if she was his friend, too.

  And someone, Sam had to admit, who was as close to being a real friend as Sam had, even if she was friends with Marr as well.

  ‘Are you doing alright?’ Becky asked.

  Sam nodded.

  ‘Well as can be expected, I suppose.’

  ‘It’s still going on?’

  Sam thought of her bedroom the other night, and nodded.

  ‘Do you think it will carry on, now?’

  ‘I don’t know’ Sam said, surprised to find that she was being truthful. Marr was married, yes. But that didn’t mean much to a certain type of man: just look at Gregor Stanic. He loved Anna, Marr loved Lizzie. And yet, and yet…

  But now there was a baby; a baby. Something that he really would care for unconditionally; something that he really would sacrifice anything for. He’d sacrifice his marriage for the kid if he had to, but he’d sacrifice a bit-on-the-side well before that.

  ‘I guess babies do change everything.’

  ‘You and Alex ever consider it?’

  Becky shook her head.

  ‘Not yet. Another five years or so, I think so. When we’ve got enough saved to move somewhere a bit nicer. The last thing we want is a baby in a one bedroom apartment. There’s barely enough room there for our gerbils.’

  Sam smiled.

  ‘You’ll be alright, though?’ Becky asked.

  ‘Eventually,’ Sam replied, again not entirely sure if she meant it. In the grand scheme of thing
s, she’d be fine; men were men – replaceable enough. For now, though, she couldn’t help but think of Lizzie, and the way her skin glowed, and how some things really, really didn’t seem fair.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Marr was on his way to have another talk with Thomas Coulthard when his mobile rang. It was Alex.

  ‘Boss, something interesting’s just come through from DI West.’

  Rachel West was part of uniform, and had trained alongside Marr.

  ‘Interesting? I’m going to need more selling than that, Alex.’

  ‘Alright then boss; bloody interesting. A binman called up 999 this morning, nearly had his finger taken off with a hunting knife that someone had stuffed into their garbage.’

  No way, Marr thought. Not a fucking chance.

  ‘And would you care to guess exactly whose garbage played host to this blade – sorry, this blade with dried blood on it?’

  ‘You sound like you’re on a quiz show, Alex.’

  ‘You did say sell it.’

  ‘Fair point. Caroline Marcus?’

  ‘Oh, better: Gregor Stanic. He’s already at the station.’

  Marr cut the call. This case had already been irritating him, now it had reared up and was treating him to a non-stop round of ‘stop hitting yourself’.

  He pulled over into a service station to fill up, and called up Thomas Coulthard to delay their meeting. He did want to speak to him – well as much as you could want to speak to someone like that – but it would have to wait for the moment.

  He thought about calling Sam, but – hating himself slightly – he bottled it and decided to call Becky instead. As fate – or a vindictive god – might have it, it was Sam who picked up anyway.

  ‘Becky’s driving,’ she said.

  ‘We’ve found the murder weapon – the one used to kill Anna Markham. Probably, anyway: it’s turned up in Greg Stanic’s garbage.’

  Sam breathed out.

  ‘Bloody hell.’

  Marr listened while Sam told Becky.

  ‘We’re turning the car around,’ she eventually said.

  ‘No, don’t bother, I’ll go and talk to him. Rachel’s already brought him in, and I want to try and beat Stanic’s solicitor in there.’

  ‘You think he’s got a solicitor already?’

  ‘If he hasn’t called one by now, he’s an idiot,’ Marr replied, cutting the call.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  It only took Marr a couple of minutes to get back to the station, by which time Alex was already waiting by the front desk.

  ‘He’s in room C, and he looks guilty as hell.’ The constable said.

  ‘He didn’t do it, Alex.’ Marr replied, surprised at his own certainty. Alex shrugged.

  ‘Well, maybe not, but he couldn’t be in a much worse situation. Short of drinking blood and chanting ‘Kill the innocent’.

  ‘He called a lawyer?’

  ‘The right honourable Fenton Jackson, no less. You’ve probably got half an hour or so before he arrives and starts charging Stanic more per hour than we make in a week.’

  Marr made his way through the station to the interview rooms. Entering room C, he found Rachel West herself overseeing what – it had to be said – was a very guilty looking Gregor Stanic. His head was low, his eyes fixed on the table top. It was the same look Marr’s brother’s dog wore when she used the living room carpet for a toilet.

  ‘Thanks Rachel,’ Marr said, smiling at her. ‘I assume he didn’t give you any trouble.’

  ‘None at all.’ She replied, moving to leave but stopping when she was within mumbling distance of him.

  ‘Guilty as hell’, she said, half under her breath but still loud enough for Stanic to hear. Intentional, no doubt.

  After Rachel left, Marr shut the door behind her, and sat down in front of Stanic.

  ‘I’ve got to say, Gregor, I’m sorry to see you again so soon. Talk to me.’

  Stanic said nothing, his gaze resolutely trained on the table in front of him.

  ‘I really am sorry,’ Marr continued. ‘I’m not stupid. I know that you loved Anna, and I know that whatever the hell has happened in the last few days wasn’t planned. Not by you, at any rate.’

  Marr paused, giving Stanic room to reply. He didn’t.

  Marr sighed.

  ‘You’re lawyer’s going to be here soon, Gregor. Fenton Jackson the 3rd, or whatever royal title he’s going by these days. Fenton’s an arse, but he’s a good lawyer. He’ll probably tell you to button up and save it for the trial. Gives him time to come up with a solid defence. See, the problem is he already knows you’re going to be charged. That knife we found hasn’t gone through forensics yet, true, but I know we’re going to find your prints or your DNA on it. It wouldn’t have been in your garbage, if we weren’t.’

  ‘So, unfortunately – we’ve now got a murder weapon. The CPS – that’s the Crown Prosecution Service, sorry – won’t have a problem going to court. We’ve gone to court with less before. And a lot – I mean a lot – of juries will find it very easy to see you as a murderer. And the trouble is, that means that they’re also likely to think you killed Caroline Marcus to cover it up.’

  Stanic looked up, his eyes widening.

  ‘No…’

  ‘Well then, why did she turn up dead? With a note confessing everything? Bit convenient, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Someone must have put the knife in the garbage!’

  ‘Then why the hell has it got your DNA on it?’

  ‘Who says it did?’

  Marr sighed again. He was getting very bored of this. Stanic wasn’t stupid, and playing dumb in his position was…well, dumb.

  ‘Greg, open your fucking eyes. That knife was in that rubbish bag for a reason. That reason might be because you stabbed your fiancée in the gut. Or, it might be because someone put it there to frame you. Either way, your prints are going to be on it.’

  Stanic continued to say nothing. Marr picked up his phone and asked Alex to bring a shot of the knife to them. It took less than two minutes to arrive, a huffing and puffing Alex sounding like he’d run to the photocopier and back.

  ‘Ray says have the photo back in ten minutes,’ he said, between breaths ‘He needs to go home, apparently: there’s a women’s tennis match on.’

  Marr rolled his eyes and held the photo out to Stanic.

  ‘This look familiar?’ he asked.

  Stanic said nothing, but did at least look at the photo. He let out a deep breath, and sat back in his chair. He looked like a beaten man.

  ‘I take that as a yes?’ Marr asked.

  Stanic nodded.

  Marr handed the photo back to Alex.

  ‘Tell Ray to stop being such a creepy bastard.’

  Alex nodded and left them to it. Marr turned back to Stanic.

  ‘Greg, I don’t think you killed Anna. And I don’t think you killed Caroline either. And, to be honest, I don’t even think Caroline killed herself. But for fuck’s sake, try and help me out. Anything you can think of help me find out who really killed them.’

  The door to the handle clicked, and in walked the right honourable Fenton Jackson, his grey suit shining in the orange glow of the room’s light.

  Marr sighed, and looked back at Stanic. The suspect was, once again, finding something incredibly interesting to enjoy on the table top. The interview was – for an hour at least – over.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  ‘Well Steve, looks like you were right. Caroline Marcus probably didn’t kill herself after all. That was quick work even for you: and getting random bin men to help out, too: a stroke of genius.’

  Brooke was looking pleased; this was, as far as he was concerned, a result.

  ‘Now that we’ve got the wife-killer - fiancée killer, I should say - locked up, I think we’re all due a pie and a pint, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘It’s ten AM sir.’

  ‘Fry-up and a pint, then.’

  ‘He didn’t kill her, sir.�
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  ‘Didn’t kill Anna?’

  ‘Or Caroline.’

  ‘You’ll have a bloody hard time trying to convince anyone of that, Steve. A murder weapon in the trash with his fingerprints all over them? Might as well knit him a jumper with the word ‘Guilty’ on it.’

  Marr looked at the Chief Inspector, who sighed.

  ‘Steve, I said you could have forty-eight hours to conclude the case to your satisfaction. As far as I’m concerned, that forty-eight hours is still in effect. Do your worst. But I’ll be fucking amazed if Stanic isn’t serving his sentence this time next year.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice.’

  ‘My pleasure. What have you even got left to go on, anyway?’

  ‘Caroline Marcus’ burner phone, and Thomas Coulthard.’

  ‘The slimy friend? Sam said she needed three showers just to wash away seeing a photo of him.’

  ‘It’s a fair assessment. I’m not sure he’s evil, as such, but…well, he’s…’

  ‘A bit of a wrong’un?’ Brooke offered.

  ‘Yeah. And Becky will have the burner phone info back this afternoon.’

  Brooke nodded.

  ‘Better give Mrs Alex a call, see if she had any luck with Leicester Square or whatever his name was.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  It turned out that yes, Becky had had a bit of luck with Leicester Square or whatever his name was.

  ‘Warren remembered Caroline coming and buying the phone. Well, more specifically, he remembered one of his work-mates talking about her ass.’

  Marr nodded, pleased they’d at least managed to properly connect the phone to Caroline.

  ‘Sounds like a delightful chap. A pervert who works in a phone shop; sounds like a right catch.’

  Becky laughed.

  ‘Well, I had to battle with my own feelings, believe me. She bought the burner and paid in cash, so at least we know it wasn’t planted. She wanted to talk to someone, and didn’t want anyone going through her own mobile to find out who.’

  ‘Well, you know what to do then.’