Deadly Practice

by Christine Green

  Once I was in the back seat of the police car the other PC returned to the house and I sat there mumbling that when I got to the station I wanted to see either DS Roade or DCI Hook.

  ‘You'll be lucky,’ said PC Shiny Specs. ‘They're both tucked up in bed.’

  I muttered about wanting my solicitor but then remembered I hadn't got one.

  The other PC, older, although built like a wrestler, gave me a cheerful ‘Haven't we done well' sort of smile, making him appear more user friendly. He drove off saying, ‘Done many other jobs, love? You don't look much the average burglar to me. Still, it takes all sorts to make a criminal.’

  ‘I'm not a criminal,’ I said indignantly, ‘I'm a private detective.’

  They were still laughing about that as we drove into the station.

  I'm in luck, I thought, when I saw the station sergeant was a man I'd met before. He acted though as if he'd never seen me in his life, took my details with a stony face, ignored my protestations of innocence and told the two arresting officers to take me to a cell.

  ‘In the morning I'll get DCI Hook to interview you,’ he said as the two PCs started to bundle me away. ‘In the morning' echoed in my head. When in the morning? Where was Hubert?

  The cell was cold and bare apart from a concrete pallet, a thin mattress, two blankets, a pillow and a naked light bulb high up in the ceiling. What did you expect, I asked myself, lamps, duvets and a four-poster? It smelled of disinfectant and urine and as the door closed with a dreadful mechanical finality I shivered and felt tears stinging my eyes. I told myself I couldn't break down yet for God's sake, they'd only just shut the cell door. Some people, some criminals smelt this smell and felt the cold and the awful loneliness for weeks, months and years. I'd be out in the morning. I'd be out in the morning. I practised repeating that to comfort myself. It sounded good.

  I wrapped the blankets round me, propped myself up on the ‘bed', my head against the wall, and tried to think positive thoughts. Such as when did I last read in any newspaper of a private detective coming to trial for burglary? They must be at it, I thought. Or perhaps being intelligent they never got caught.

  If I could have slept I would have been disturbed. The first sound of footsteps and the hatch opening made me think I was being released. It wasn't freedom that beckoned, it was merely to make sure I hadn't been spirited away, or hanged myself or merely snatched some sleep. The face that looked at me on the first occasion was young and quite good looking. I gave him a regal wave to hide my disappointment. The next ‘visit' a female face appeared, middle aged, round faced and with a friendly smile.

  ‘I'm the police matron – Mrs Brightman. Are you all right? Would you like a hot drink?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ I replied gratefully, thinking that I would never have believed such simple questions could be so comforting.

  The cocoa that came in a plastic cup ten minutes later was hot and sweet and I savoured every mouthful. After that I settled down to sleep and prayed as I drifted off that the morning would come quickly.

  At eight Mrs Brightman brought me tea and toast. I was allowed to go to the loo and quickly wash my hands and face. Then a constable arrived at eight thirty to take me up to the interview room where Hook and Roade sat waiting for me with faces as blank as deactivated androids.

  ‘Sit,’ said Hook.

  I sat. And waited. Hook stared at me. I stared back for a while but then I looked away. Interview me, I thought – ask me something, anything. Eventually I said, ‘Inspector, I'm sorry about this. I was perhaps a little over enthusiastic in pursuing my investigation.’

  ‘That's an understatement,’ he said frostily. ‘What exactly did you hope to gain?’

  ‘Only information, Inspector. I wasn't planning to steal anything. I thought maybe I'd find a diary.’

  ‘One that we'd missed?’ he asked and the sarcasm was obvious from his eyebrows to his larynx.

  ‘I was stupid,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Could you say that again?’

  ‘I was stupid.’

  I caught Roade's eye then and he smirked and if I'd had a Mars bar with me I'd have rammed it down his throat. My anger at his silly self-righteous smirk made me bold.

  ‘Inspector, I did not enter that house with criminal intent, I made an error of judgement and I'm sorry I smashed the window but since the combined forces of Longborough and Dunsmore CID seem to have made very little headway I can't help thinking that one more person's perspective on the case wouldn't come amiss.’

  Hook's face suffused with colour, then he paled leaving a white area around his lips. Every muscle in his face and neck tensed with anger. I watched the change in his face as if observing a rare medical phenomenon.

  ‘You've done it now,’ whispered Roade with obvious delight.

  ‘The charges are,’ intoned Hook, ‘one, breaking and entering, two, criminal damage, three, resisting arrest—’

  ‘I didn't resist arrest,’ I interrupted in a state of growing panic. Perhaps Roade was right – I had done it now!

  A knock at the door and a mumbled request from an unseen person in the corridor spirited Hook away. And left Roade and me staring at each other across the table. He began shaking his head and tutting.

  ‘I won't give you another Mars bar if you don't talk to me properly,’ I said.

  ‘He's determined to charge you,’ said Roade. ‘So don't be flippant. You're in deep shit. That crack you made about not making headway on the case really got to him. He can be a nasty sod. If I were you I'd cry and grovel and try and butter him up. You might, if you act well enough, get off with a caution.’

  ‘Why exactly is he so sensitive?’

  ‘Perhaps he wasn't breast-fed long enough.’

  ‘You know what I'm talking about, Sergeant Roade.’

  Roade sat forward and placed his elbows on the table. ‘It's Charles Amroth or to be more exact his missing wife. Four years ago Hook was certain Amroth had killed his wife. She was an alcoholic and the marriage had been dodgy for years. Once their son had gone off to university she got much worse. When she disappeared Hook was working in Dunsmore and on his way to being promoted to chief inspector, but he was over-zealous. No evidence was ever found that Amroth had killed his wife, the son said he'd had letters from her but couldn't produce any. Amroth himself seemed relieved she'd gone and shortly after there were rumours he and Jenny were having an affair.’

  ‘Do you think they were?’

  ‘I'm not sure, maybe.’

  ‘It is possible though, isn't it?’ I said. ‘Bereaved people often behave out of character. They'd both suffered loss, they worked in the same place, they had opportunity. But then I've been told he was also having an affair with Teresa.’

  ‘That was only recently we think. It sounds as if Charlie was “me darling” to them both. Hook would love to nail Amroth but there's no evidence.’

  ‘No forensic?’

  Roade shook his head. ‘Not so far. Nothing worthwhile.’

  ‘Where have you looked?’ I asked.

  ‘Everywhere, including the house you broke into. There's nothing.’

  ‘So you think maybe Jenny and Teresa were killed out of either Dunsmore or Longborough.’

  He nodded. ‘The trouble is they were killed cleanly, taken unawares—’

  The door opened suddenly and Hook stood there still looking angry. ‘You, Kinsella – get out. The super doesn't want the adverse publicity. Go. Roade, take her home, make sure she gets there and tell Humberstone he's lucky to have friends in high places.’

  Roade took me by the arm and led me out of the building as fast as if it were in imminent danger of collapsing. Once in his car I managed to catch my breath. ‘What the hell was that all about?’ I asked. One minute I was in danger of a court appearance and a criminal record, the next I was being led off the premises in one almighty hurry. Roade shrugged, as mystified as I was. ‘Search me. He probably won't tell me either. He'll be in a mood now for days, he'll make my life a m
isery.’ I patted him on the knee and he blushed a deep crimson. As Roade drove off I had to ask him one more question. ‘Do you think more than one person killed Jenny and Teresa?’

  ‘I don't know. Forensic think a karate-type chop was used on the back of their necks and then they were strangled.’

  ‘I see. And the diaries of both women?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Nothing in there?’

  ‘Yeah, that is a bit strange. Both of them seemed obsessed by the weather, a load of trivia – dripping taps, that sort of thing.’

  ‘A code?’

  ‘Why?’

  I shrugged. I realized that I probably had two pieces of information the CID didn't have. The first, that Jenny wasn't quite dead when she was first bundled into the boot of the car. The second, that Jenny and Teresa were on a predatory mission.

  As Humberstones' came into view I thanked DS Roade for the lift and for the information. He raised an eyebrow at that. I don't think he realized he'd given me any.

  ‘See you,’ said Roade, as he dropped me off. ‘Stay lucky.’

  Hubert waited for me by my office door. He looked relieved.

  ‘I didn't know you could run that fast,’ I said.

  ‘I didn't know you couldn't.’

  ‘I fell over a plant pot, Hubert. I can run. You wouldn't win a George Medal, would you? You just abandoned me to my fate.’

  Hubert scowled. ‘I'll cook you some breakfast,’ he said, ‘and I'll explain.’

  ‘I've had toast.’

  ‘Have some more then.’

  Over toast and coffee Hubert said, ‘I had to make a quick decision, go back for you and risk us both being caught or stay free and help you from the outside.’

  ‘I bet you went to bed.’

  ‘I did not. I was making phone calls. How do you think you got out?’

  ‘I heard, “friends in high places”.’

  ‘Precisely, Kate.’

  I waited for him to explain, I sipped my coffee and waited.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Think on this, Kate. Would you do a favour for the man who buried your mother?’

  ‘I see. The superintendent's – mother.’

  ‘Higher than that,’ said Hubert proudly. ‘Let's forget it now, shall we? Did you find anything out?’

  ‘I'm traumatized, Hubert, by my ordeal. You seem to be taking that very lightly.’

  ‘One night in a cell is no big deal, Kate. What did you find out?’

  ‘I found out that the police have no evidence. They suspect Dr Amroth of three murders.’

  ‘Three?’

  ‘Hook is convinced Helena Amroth is dead.’

  ‘Do you think she is?’

  ‘I don't know but I'd hazard a guess that Jenny and Teresa thought she was alive and I can't help feeling their “friendship” with Amroth had an ulterior motive.’

  ‘You've lost me.’

  ‘I think Jenny suspected Helena of being the hit and run driver.’

  ‘Why should she do that, was there any evidence against her?’

  ‘Just circumstantial – Helena's being an alcoholic then disappearing soon after the accident made them put two and two together. Then someone reinforced their suspicion and then two and two definitely made four.’

  ‘Does this get you anywhere? Has Dr Amroth got an alibi for the night of the murder?’

  ‘It seems he was at home with his son, but I did what you suggested.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Presumed the police would have checked that out very thoroughly.’

  ‘Neil doesn't live in the house – you do know that?’ Hubert has one of his cocky expressions.

  ‘You know jolly well I don't. No doubt you'll explain.’

  ‘Technically Neil lives at home but during the summer months he stays in a summer-house at the bottom of the garden. So maybe his father wasn't in the house when Neil said he was.’

  ‘How did you find this out? From your friends in high places?’

  He ignored that remark. ‘I also found out, Hook nearly got the elbow for police harassment. Amroth filed a formal complaint. Hook, it seems, was so convinced of Helena Amroth's death that he was prepared to sacrifice his career for it – he wanted to dig up the garden and had dug up part of it until he was stopped.’

  ‘Did no one look for her presuming she was alive?’

  ‘Her son did, he went to London and made enquiries and even got the Salvation Army to search for her. There were one or two leads but they came to nothing.’

  Is it that easy to just disappear? I wondered. Had Jenny and Teresa found her and was it true Jenny wanted the ultimate revenge? Helena was obviously the catalyst but where was she now, and had she killed both women or had them killed?

  Then I remembered Charles Amroth. If he had killed his wife and successfully hidden the body or disposed of it and Jenny and Teresa found out where Helena's body was, maybe he'd had to silence them. But would they have told anyway? If Helena's death was what Jenny wanted and Charles was a friend to them both – was he in any danger from them?

  Hubert must have seen I was low spirited, and he patted me on the shoulder. ‘There's only one answer, Kate – you have to find Helena Amroth dead or alive.’

  I stared into his prune-coloured eyes wishing I could find the answer there. ‘I agree. But how?’

  ‘Someone knows where she is. A friend, relative. Someone …’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Mid-morning it began to rain, the bouncing off the pavement sort. Even though it was Saturday Longborough High Street soon became deserted. I had to do something. Hubert said he had paperwork to do as he was planning a revamped information pack with a new selection of hymns and did I have any ‘requests'? I didn't.

  At lunch time I rang Geoff Martin and arranged to call at the house in the afternoon. He sounded depressed and said it was about time he saw me and that he wasn't too impressed with my efforts. What the hell did he expect?

  At the house he suggested we sat in the kitchen. Outside the rain fell steadily from grey skies and Geoff looked pathetic again, especially since he hadn't dressed or shaved and the horse blanket was back.

  ‘It's getting worse, not better,’ he said as he slumped at the kitchen table. ‘I'm hardly working, I can't sleep. When I do drop off I dream about Jenny, sometimes Simon too.’

  ‘Geoff, I know this may upset you but I have to ask …’ He watched me warily like a dog expecting a cuff. ‘Why don't you ever mention revenge, why aren't you more angry? Did you expect Jenny to die?’

  ‘Of course I didn't,’ he answered sharply. ‘Why do you say that? I've got enough problems staying on an even keel without you suggesting that in some way I didn't care … that I expected it.’

  ‘Did you in fact talk to each other at all?’

  His right hand clutched the side of the kitchen table and after a few moments he began to drum with his fingers. When he didn't answer I asked, ‘What's the matter? Have I touched a nerve?’

  ‘Too bloody right. I'm raw – can't you see that – you hard-hearted bitch. Oh, it's all right for women, they have their friends. Who have I got? No one. No bugger wants to talk to me. I wanted to be a suspect, did you know that? They let me talk, they made me talk.’

  ‘Were you angry when Simon died?’

  ‘Of course I was angry. I would have laid down my life for both of them.’

  ‘Would you have killed the driver of the car?’

  He paused, placed his hand over mine, pressing it into the table. ‘Oh yes. And so would Jenny.’

  I tried to pull my hand from under his but the pressure was vice-like. Suddenly I felt scared of him. He stared at me, sensed my fear. ‘You're supposed to look for the truth but it makes you uncomfortable, doesn't it? The truth is rarely palatable.’

  ‘Geoff, I want to find out who killed Jenny and Teresa. You obviously do too but I'm sure you're hiding something. By not telling you're hindering the investigation; after all, we d
o want to find the person or persons responsible.’

  ‘I'm paying you to do that,’ he said coldly. ‘That shows my intention. I have nothing more to say.’

  He released my hand then. ‘I need a drink,’ he said. He stood up and walked to the kitchen unit, opened a cupboard and took out a bottle of brandy. Before he closed the door I saw it was full of booze. He poured two brandies into sherry glasses, handed one to me and drank his in one huge gulp. Then he poured himself another. I sipped mine slowly in silence not knowing quite what to say next.

  Eventually I said, ‘How much progress had Jenny made finding Helena?’

  ‘Who said she'd made any?’

  ‘I think she knew where Helena was staying. And I think you know too.’

  ‘Think what you like,’ said Geoff petulantly. ‘Nothing matters any more.’

  ‘Of course it matters. Whoever killed Jenny and Teresa must be brought to justice.’

  He refilled his glass then and tried to do the same to mine but I placed my hand over it and shook my head. He drank so fast a trickle of brandy flowed down his stubble and when his hand began to shake I realized he'd probably been drinking all morning.

  ‘I'd better go,’ I said.

  ‘Do that.’

  As I stood up to go he stared at me. His eyes, I noticed now, were slightly bloodshot and the tiny slivers of red should have warned me of danger. ‘Try not to drink too much,’ I urged him.

  ‘You stupid bitch – don't you give me advice!’ he shouted as he got to his feet unsteadily. So unsteadily that the chair he'd sat on fell to the ground. I don't know if it made a noise because by this time he was lashing out at me. ‘Get out you bitch – come here again and I'll … get fucking out!’ His hand caught my cheek and I half stumbled to the floor. The shock winded me but then he began kicking me in the back. I crawled towards the door. He was extending his vocabulary now, screaming a variety of abuse at me. I knew I was in terrible danger on the floor, I scrabbled to my knees and began screaming. He paused in his kicks and his tirade and in those seconds I was up and running. I didn't waste time flinging doors shut I just ran down the hall out of the garden to my car where in the pouring rain I fumbled awkwardly in my shoulder bag for my keys. I glanced towards the open front door. He stood there calmly watching me. As I found my keys I had the satisfaction of giving him a two-finger salute.