Psychological Thriller Series: Adam Stanley Boxed Set: Behind Shadows, Positively Murder and Mind Bender

by Netta Newbound

  They were also subjected to physical abuse, Andrew especially. When he vanished, aged fifteen, she was convinced their father had murdered him, and she didn’t find out till years later that he’d actually run away to join the Foreign Legion.

  She stroked Mary's fine, blonde hair. Mary resembled her mother more than her other children did. But Amanda and Andrew looked very much alike, so nobody would question that. In fact, Andrew used to dress like her—the reason she was initially in the frame for the murders.

  She kissed the tip of her finger and placed it against Mary’s cheekbone.

  ***

  The car yard was filled with emergency vehicles and flashing blue lights. As I drove in, I saw they were all focused around a top-of-the-range Mercedes.

  Frances met me as I stepped from the car.

  “Malik Duvall,” she informed me.

  “Why does that name ring a bell?”

  “He’s the owner of Duvall’s Confectionery.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “Nope, I’m afraid not. But you’ll never guess ...”

  “Go on.”

  “He’s been shot three times in the chest.”

  “Shit. Any witnesses?”

  “No. A couple of kids on skateboards discovered him about an hour ago. Mr Duvall’s fiancée reported him missing last night, so it’s likely he’s been here for over twenty-four hours. The coroner will have to confirm that though.”

  I approached the Merc. The body of a fat man sat twisted half in, half out of the driver’s seat.

  “Do you think he’s the one who shot Bertram? He certainly fits the description.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Frances said.

  “Fuck! The more we learn about this case, the more confusing it is. You mentioned a fiancée?”

  “Yes. You wanna go?”

  “May as well. We can’t do much around here.”

  *

  Sally Owens, a twenty-three-year old glamour puss, was not at all what I’d expected. Her peroxide-blonde hair and pumped up chest were typical of a woman normally seen on the arm of a footballer or super-cool rapper, not the morbidly obese man she'd been engaged to marry.

  "Have you found him?" She panted, as though she'd just returned from a run around the block.

  I took the lead. "DI Stanley and DS Frances. Are you Sally Owens?"

  "Yes."

  "May we come in please, Miss Owens?"

  She stepped backwards and opened the door wider. Her petrified eyes never left my face as I entered the house.

  She led us through to the large, square kitchen and we all took a seat around the elegant, antique dining table.

  "Please. I can't stand not knowing. Have you found Malik?"

  I nodded. "I'm sorry, Miss Owens. Malik Duvall has been located. He was shot dead in his car.”

  I braced myself in anticipation of her reaction. This was the worst part of the job for me. But she didn't make a sound.

  Sally stared at me open-mouthed. Then she glanced at Frances as though for confirmation.

  Frances nodded and reached out to touch the young woman's hand.

  Silent tears poured down Sally's face.

  After a few minutes, Frances got up to make some tea.

  It always puzzled me why the first thing anybody thought to do in a crisis was brew a pot of tea. When Sarah died, I ended up drinking mug after mug. As soon as I had a new wave of well-wishers, the kettle was on and tea poured.

  "Why would someone want to hurt my Mallie?" Sally whispered.

  "I'm sorry. We don’t know anything yet," I said.

  "Are you sure it's him?"

  "Mr Duvall is a very distinct-looking person. Obviously he will need a formal identification, but, yes, we are quite certain."

  More tears flowed. She wiped her face and snotty nose with her hands and rubbed her palms on her pink leggings.

  "When did you last see him?" I asked, handing her my hanky, which she screwed up into a ball and then just held tightly.

  "Yesterday morning, before he left for work. But he rang me in the afternoon and told me to get ready. He was taking me out. When he didn't come home, I knew something awful had happened to him. No way would he just not come home." She sobbed loudly, with her mouth wide open, revealing small white teeth.

  Frances placed the tea tray on the table and put a steaming cup in front of each of us.

  Sally attempted to smile at her, and then blew her nose on my hanky, noisily.

  "Sally, have you heard about the murders in Pinevale this week?" Frances asked.

  She nodded. "Do you think they have something to do with whoever killed my Mallie?"

  "It's looking likely at this stage. Could you tell me where he was on Monday?"

  "At work. He let the staff go early because of the shooting in town. They were unsettled. He got home just after four.

  "How did he seem to you?" I asked.

  "Normal. Why?"

  "How about these last few weeks? Any unusual behaviour? Anything at all?"

  "There is one thing," she said.

  "Yes?"

  "He's been dieting for the wedding. Mallie said it was for me, but I told him I loved him the way he was. He's been doing amazing, even lost a couple of stone already."

  I glanced at Frances then back to Sally. I sipped at my tea while I waited for her to continue.

  "And?" Frances asked.

  "I don't follow," Sally said.

  "You said he'd been behaving different."

  "Yes. I just told you. He was dieting."

  Could she really be this thick? Adam thought. "No. We meant in himself. Like moody, bad-tempered, extra happy, secretive? Anything at all that stood out as unusual or out of character."

  Sally shook her head. "No."

  "Did he receive any strange phone calls or packages?" Frances asked.

  "No, nothing."

  "Okay, thank you, Sally. That will be all for now,” I said, placing my half empty cup back on the tray before getting to my feet. "Is there somebody we can call to come and sit with you? You shouldn't be alone right now."

  "No. There's nobody. I didn’t meet anybody around here except for Mallie's family, and they all hate me."

  "Will you inform his family? Or would you like one of our officers to?" Frances asked.

  "No. I'll do it myself. Where does this leave me now?"

  "What do you mean?" Adam turned back to face her from his position at the door.

  “We were planning to get married. He loves me. We loved each other," she said, as an afterthought. “But where does Mallie dying leave me financially?”

  “I have no idea, Miss Owens. I suggest you contact your solicitor. Did Mr Duvall have a will?”

  “Yes, he did. He said he was going to change it, but I don't know if he had a chance to."

  “Oh, there is one more question. Do you have access to Mr Duvall's bank accounts?”

  “No. He only gave me a credit card.”

  “How about cash? Did he ever leave large amounts of money lying around anywhere?”

  Sally shook her head. “No, I don’t know, sorry. Maybe ask Katherine, the receptionist at the factory. She knows everything,” she said, with a scowl.

  Chapter 13

  After calling Calvin at the station, we made another late night call.

  Katherine Keenan was a slightly plump, dark-haired woman in her thirties. I had expected another glamorous woman by the jealous way Sally said her name.

  After we introduced ourselves, she invited us inside her small terraced house.

  The front door opened directly into the lounge, a far cry from the recent homes we'd visited with their grand reception rooms and hallways.

  A bald man lay on the sofa eating from a large bag of ready salted crisps. He shoved the packet down the side of the sofa cushion and sat up, placing his bare feet on the carpet and wiping his fingers on his light grey pyjama bottoms.

  "This is my boyfriend, Ian," Katherine said.

&
nbsp; “Sorry to bother you, sir." I avoided shaking Ian's hand after seeing the greasy trail they had left on his pyjamas. "We need to ask you a few questions, Ms Keenan, and then we'll be out of your hair.”

  Katherine sat beside Ian and indicated we sit in the two vacant, cream-coloured, leather armchairs opposite.

  “I believe you’re employed at Duvall's?” I began, once seated.

  “I am, yes.” Katherine nodded.

  “Did you go to work on Thursday?”

  “Yes. Why? What's happened?”

  “How about your boss, Malik Duvall?”

  “Yes. He was there all day until around three.”

  “Where did he go at three?”

  “I don’t know. He rang down to reception and asked me to pick up a dozen red roses for his girlfriend.”

  “For Sally Owens?” I asked.

  “Yeah, Sal.”

  The easy way she spoke the younger woman’s name told me she didn't harbour any bad feelings towards Sally. The jealousy was clearly all one-sided. “So what happened then?”

  "Moments later he ran down the stairs and out the doors without saying a word."

  "Was this unusual behaviour?”

  “Yes, very. And when he didn't come back, I thought something must be wrong. Since taking over the running of the factory, Mr Duvall hasn't missed a close. He's fastidious, normally. The only time he hasn’t been there was when he went on a cruise, and he made sure Dan, the caretaker, locked up instead.”

  “Don’t you have a key?”

  A large grey Persian cat sauntered in through the internal door and proceeded to press itself against Frances’ leg. Frances gave a little squeal before shoving the fluffy puss away, first with her hand and then with her foot. Her phobia was common knowledge throughout the station. They all teased her about it. She began scratching the skin on her hand where it had been in contact with the cat.

  Katherine reached out and grabbed the cat, sitting it on her lap before continuing. “No, I never needed a key. Dan lives on the premises.”

  “Does he?” I asked, screwing my face up.

  "Yeah, not in the factory, but he lives in a caravan on site."

  Frances’ eyes didn’t leave the cat, which was now out-stretched on its back with its paws in the air while Katherine stroked its belly. Frances rubbed her hand frantically on the seat beside her.

  "I see. So, what did you do when he didn’t come back?" I asked, hoping they didn’t notice Frances’ bizarre behaviour.

  "I tried his phone several times, but he didn't answer. In the end, Dan and I locked up between us. When he didn’t arrive today, I was certain something must have happened. I called Sally, and she told me he hadn’t been home, and she’d called you guys."

  "Was Mr Duvall in the office last Monday?"

  "Monday—Monday," she said, looking up at the ceiling as though ferreting around in her memory banks. "Oh, yes. Monday was the day of the murder in town. He let us all go early."

  "Was he there all day? Or until you left for the day?"

  "Yes, I think so. All day. Oh, hang on. No. He popped out around lunchtime."

  "Did he say where he was going?"

  "No. Come to think of it, he didn't."

  "How long was he gone for?"

  She shook her head, her lips pursed sideways. "I'm not sure, but no longer than an hour, maybe less. Can you tell me why you're asking all these questions? He is all right, isn't he?"

  The cat, now bored with the attention, jumped to its feet and shook itself, before leaping to the back of the sofa. It sat briefly while licking its nether regions, then slinked from the room.

  I thought Frances was about to have a nervous breakdown, but she visibly relaxed once the cat had left.

  I rolled my eyes at her as if to say, what-the-fuck! Then I realised I hadn’t answered the question.

  "Oh, sorry. Sally Owens filed a missing person's report last night. We're making enquiries. That's all." It wasn’t a lie. Not really.

  Katherine seemed satisfied with the explanation.

  "Does Mr Duvall keep any cash at the factory?"

  Frances sat forward, clearly over her petrified episode.

  "There’s usually some in the safe, but I'm not sure how much."

  Frances cleared her throat. "Can you access the safe?" she asked.

  "I know where he keeps the combination written down."

  "Would you meet us at the office in the morning, at say ten, ten-thirty?" I asked.

  *

  “What the hell, Frances! You need to get that sorted out, for Christ’s sake.”

  “I know. I know. I can’t help it. I just freeze.”

  “You’re getting worse though. I’ve never seen you as bad as that before.”

  “Stop going on. I’ll sort it.”

  “You bloody well better, or we’ll be a laughing stock if this gets out.”

  I dropped her off at her car, before heading back to the station. I needed to examine the evidence to date and try to get my head around some things.

  We knew for sure that Oliver Bertram killed Wayne Houston, and Malik Duvall killed Oliver Bertram. A mystery person killed Malik Duvall. So, if this pattern was anything to go by, Malik's killer would be next.

  But, we had nothing to go on with this latest killing. At least with the others there were witness statements. This time there wasn't even a time of death. The initial coroner reports were that Malik didn't die immediately. He'd probably bled out after the gunman left. Maybe if the boys had found him earlier, he would still be alive.

  Malik had, no doubt, handed over a sum of cash to his killer, just like both other times. Calvin would be chasing up Malik's bank accounts.

  I’d never known a case like this one. No sooner had we got an investigation underway, looking for a particular killer, than the killer would turn up as their next victim, and we were back to square one.

  I pressed a finger to a point directly between my eyes and sighed.

  We were missing something. But what?

  Chapter 14

  On Saturday morning, Katherine and Dan, the caretaker, met us at the factory. The news of their boss’ murder hadn’t filtered through to them yet.

  Dan, a man in his sixties with thinning grey hair, hardly any chin and a wrinkly face and neck, reminded me of a tortoise. He wore navy blue overalls, even on his day off. He told us he hadn't seen Malik since Monday and could offer no information. Once we were inside the building, he made himself scarce.

  Katherine led us up the stairs to Malik's office, and I gave a long whistle when I saw the huge glass window overlooking the whole operation.

  "Mr Duvall always stands there watching over production," Katherine said, as she searched through the desk drawers. She pulled out a little black notebook. "He keeps everything in here. All his computer passwords and important numbers—he's no good at keeping things in his head."

  She found what she was looking for, walked to the back of the office, and ducked down to a built-in cupboard underneath a stack of shelves.

  She entered a series of numbers to the pushbutton safe, and the door clunked open. The only things inside were piles of business-related documents.

  “That's strange," she said. "He usually keeps a pale green cloth bag filled with money in here. Like I said, I couldn’t tell you how much, but I’d guess at least ten grand.”

  "Would he keep it somewhere else?"

  She shrugged. "Possibly. At home perhaps."

  After an unsuccessful sweep of the office, we left and headed back to the station.

  “I’ve found a local practice that specialises in phobias,” Frances said.

  “Good! We can’t be having a repeat performance of last night. That was terrible.”

  “I know. I’ll make an appointment for next week. You won’t tell anybody will you, boss? I don’t want to be a laughing stock.”

  “Go grab us some greasy breakfast rolls, and I’ll think about it.” I joked, enjoying watching her squirm. “Get
one for Cal too.” I handed her a twenty.

  “No problem, boss.”

  We parted ways as we entered the building.

  Calvin Wade, my gay twenty-eight-year-old right-hand man, met me as I arrived.

  "I'm still waiting for information on Duvall's bank accounts. It'll probably be Monday now," he said. "And I've sent a notification to all banks and building societies telling them to contact you directly if anybody attempts to withdraw a large sum of money."

  "Good one, Cal."

  "Did you get anywhere at the factory?" He followed me into my office.

  "Nah! What a waste of time that was." I glanced through the notes on my desk. "Anything else?"

  "Malik's phone shows he received a call at 3.10pm on Thursday. It was from a burner phone, just like the other two. Oh, and forensics confirmed the gun used to shoot Duvall was the same as the one used on Houston."

  "But not Bertram?" I asked, shaking my head.

  "No. Similar style, but the bullet markings don't match."

  "Fuck! This case is getting further and further away from us." I slammed the flat of my hand on the desk.

  "It's a strange one, boss. Three murders and no real motive or lead."

  "If I'm correct in my thinking, we'll soon know who killed Malik."

  "We will?"

  "I’m pretty certain our next victim will be the killer," I explained.

  "Ah, of course he will. I didn't think about that."

  “That’s why I’m the DI and you’re the lowly assistant.” We both laughed, but I knew my job would be much harder without Calvin’s input. A trained officer, his main role was admin-based, but he was also a mean computer whiz and would often go above and beyond his contracted duties, without complaint.

  "Have you eaten?" I asked.

  "Not yet, boss. Will go and grab something soon."

  "I sent Frances to get us all bacon sarnies. Will that do you?"

  "You bet. But you didn't need to, boss."

  "And you didn't need to come in on your day off, but you did. Now, go and put the kettle on. She'll be back in a minute."

  I stared at the white-board wishing for some kind of divine intervention. How could I sit around knowing another murder was about to take place? But what other choice did we have?