A Case of Crime

by Marsali Taylor

  ‘No it is not,’ Kate retorted, anger growing inside her. ‘I don’t go anywhere until someone explains exactly what is going on. All I’ve done is supervise the recovery of a body from Dent’s Bridge. It was so badly disfigured that even I didn’t recognize Ashley Fortune. The only way we’re sure it was him was by his fingerprints.’

  ‘Ashley Fortune is only part of the problem,’ Sharpe told her. ‘When the pathologist gives us an estimated time of his death, you will be required to account for your whereabouts at that time also. For the moment, however, I have to ask if you went anywhere near East Parade when you were in Leeds on Wednesday?’

  ‘Certainly not. I told you, I went to the Grand. That was all.’

  ‘Why do you need to know about East Parade?’ Lambert intervened. ‘What happened there?’

  ‘We’ve been contacted by Leeds CID. Sharon Gardner was murdered in her office on East Parade on Wednesday evening, around 9 p.m.’

  ‘Sharon Gardner? That’s the QC who defended Ashley Fortune,’ Kate exclaimed.

  ‘Exactly, and now both she and her client have been murdered. At the moment,’ – Sharpe stared at Kate – ‘we know of only one person connected to both victims. The same person who was in the vicinity when both crimes were committed. That person is you, Kate.’

  Peter Lambert arrived at Kate’s flat early that evening. Following the disastrous day, he half expected her to have opened a bottle of wine and was surprised to see that she hadn’t touched a drop. He was more than surprised to discover that, far from being depressed or angry at her treatment, the suspension from duty, and the cloud of suspicion hanging over her, Kate seemed remarkably cheerful and optimistic.

  ‘Look, Peter, there’s no point in me getting uptight and yelling the place down over what’s happened. There’s no point dwelling on it. I can’t do a thing about it while I’m stuck here in quarantine. The truth will come out eventually. It always does in cases like this.’

  ‘I had a word with Old Bill before I left the office. He made it clear that neither he nor the chief constable believe you had anything to do with the murders. He implied that Leeds CID are putting pressure on us to let them handle both cases, and when the chief refused, they started playing dirty. It sounds to me as if Sharpe and the chief are simply covering their backs. Old Bill was more worried about the effect it was going to have on you. I told him as long as we had enough wine, you’d be OK.’

  Lambert ducked to avoid a low-flying cushion. ‘I’ve a meeting with him late tomorrow afternoon,’ he continued, having retrieved the missile. ‘By that time, hopefully, they’ll have decided how things are to be handled. For the time being, Old Bill’s handling the investigation into Fortune’s murder, whilst the chief is bracing himself to fend off the media.’

  ‘I wish him luck with that. As long as he keeps them away from me; I had a bellyful of them last time.’

  Lambert put his arms around her. ‘Ah, but you didn’t have me to protect you then. Now, as you’re a lady of leisure, what’s for dinner?’

  Later, as they were half-sitting, half-lying on the sofa watching an old black and white film on television, Kate said, ‘I don’t know why you don’t give up your flat and move in here full-time. You never go there, except to pick up mail and a change of clothing. This flat’s plenty big enough for both of us, and it would save a heck of a lot in rent.’

  ‘I was going to ask you about that. I intend to give notice on my place at the end of the month, if it’s OK with you?’

  Her reply was enthusiastic, leaving both of them breathless. ‘How about an early night?’ Peter suggested, caressing her breast as he spoke.

  ‘Let’s just watch the end of this film, then I’m all yours.’

  ‘Oh good,’ he murmured.

  ‘You haven’t forgotten that I’m going out this morning, have you, dear?’

  The elderly man lowered his newspaper and looked at his wife. It was obvious by his expression that he had forgotten. His response proved it. ‘Going out? Out where?’

  ‘I told you the other day, but I knew you weren’t listening. I said it’s my turn to do the flowers at church. I want them to look really special because there’s a christening on Sunday.’

  ‘Oh yes, I remember now.’ He was lying. She knew that. What was more, he knew she knew it.

  It was mid-morning by the time she arrived at the church, having been to the florist’s to collect the flowers she’d ordered. She walked slowly through the churchyard, clutching her precious bundle. A display such as she had planned is expensive in December, and she didn’t want to let any of her cargo fall. At the porch, she was annoyed to find the door still locked. The vicar had promised to meet her there, and it was too cold to be kept hanging about for long. She placed her flowers carefully on the church-bench and glanced at her watch. As she suspected, she was on time. ‘Honestly!’ she exclaimed, ‘Men are hopeless and forgetful.’

  Her criticism was levelled as much at her husband as the absent parson. She looked over her shoulder, hoping to see a black-clad figure striding towards her. Instead, she noticed something unusual on one of the graves. It looked for all the world as if someone had draped a bundle of old clothes over the headstone. She tutted with annoyance. People had no respect nowadays, either for the dead or for consecrated ground.

  She walked towards the grave, intent on removing the offending objects. Her eyesight was not as keen as when she was younger, and it was only when she was almost in touching distance that she realized with horror that it wasn’t a bundle of old clothes at all, but the body of a man. Blood had trickled from the corpse, almost obliterating the epitaph on the headstone. ‘Rest in the arms of the Lord’ seemed sadly ironic.

  As she recognized the victim, the parishioner began to scream. The Reverend Thomas Campion had preached his last sermon.

  The meeting Sharpe had arranged with Lambert didn’t take place. Midway through the afternoon Lambert received a terse phone call from his superior. ‘I won’t be available. Something urgent has come up and I need to deal with it. I’ll call you back later today.’

  That promised wasn’t kept. Although Lambert waited in the Thorsby station until an hour after his usual finishing time, there was no call or message from Sharpe. In the end, still concerned about Kate and anxious to be away, Lambert phoned Bainton headquarters, only to be told that Sharpe was unavailable. Somewhat irritated, Lambert told the civilian clerk, ‘He was going to ring me. Tell him not to bother. As of now, I’m unavailable.’ He slammed the phone down and marched out of the building, feeling only marginally better for having vented his feelings.

  When he reached Kate’s flat he found her still calm and composed, but when he told her about Sharpe, she had a surprise for him. ‘I expect that’s because of me. He phoned here about half an hour ago. He sounded –’ Kate frowned, ‘– oh, I don’t know, either angry or upset. Anyway, the upshot is that he wants to see me at Bainton tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock.’

  ‘I wonder what’s happened to make him change his mind. It was only a couple of days ago he banned you from going to work.’

  ‘I’ve no idea, and to be honest, I don’t care. I tell you, Peter, for two pins I’d jack the job in.’

  ‘Don’t do that, make them sack you. Then you can do them for unfair dismissal or whatever they call it.’

  ‘I’m not even going to think about it. I’ve far more important things to think about.’

  Lambert took her in his arms and began kissing her neck. ‘Such as?’ he asked.

  ‘Such as, what do you want for tea?’

  ‘You, on toast.’

  ‘OK, and what about pudding?’

  ‘You again.’

  ‘That’s being greedy.’

  The morning after the flower arranger’s unpleasant shock, a young woman alighted from the York train when it arrived at Leeds City Station. She walked into the concourse, entered a coffee bar, and ordered a large latte. She took her drink and turned to scan the room, looking for
a good place to sit. Having picked her table, she sat down, removing her large shopping bag from over her shoulder and placed it on the floor alongside her chair.

  A woman of slightly Asiatic appearance got up to leave the next table, removing a padded envelope from beneath her coat. As she passed the traveller’s table, she stooped quickly and placed it in the newly arrived passenger’s shopping bag. Neither woman spoke, but the traveller gave a slight nod by way of acknowledgement. Twenty minutes later, having drained the last dregs from the latte, she returned to the platform and boarded the next train back to York.

  Prompt at 3 p.m. that afternoon, Kate arrived at Bainton police headquarters. The chief constable looked out of his window in time to see her get out of her car. He couldn’t help noticing how cheerful and content she appeared. That would change soon, he thought. He turned to the other two people in his office. ‘She’s arrived. You’d better get it over with.’

  Kate was surprised when, instead of being directed to the first floor, where Sharpe’s office was, she was ushered into one of the interview rooms on the ground floor and told to take a seat. After a few minutes, the door opened and Sharpe walked in, accompanied by a woman Kate didn’t recognize. The superintendent introduced her as Detective Sergeant Peel from Leeds CID.

  Before Kate had chance to ask the purpose of the meeting, Sharpe walked over to the tape machine and inserted a cassette. It was then that Kate realized this wasn’t a meeting. She was about to be interviewed as a suspect.

  The questioning began with Kate being asked if she wanted her solicitor present. Shock, as much as anger, fuelled the abrupt tone of her reply. ‘I don’t have a solicitor,’ she snapped. ‘I’ve never had need of one. Just get on with it.’

  The Leeds officer spoke for the first time. ‘That sort of attitude isn’t going to help you.’

  Kate rounded on her. ‘When I want your advice, I’ll ask for it. Now, would you please get on with it? I have things to do.’

  Peel opened her mouth to respond, but Sharpe warned her off with a shake of his head. ‘Very well, Kate. We need to know your whereabouts on Wednesday evening of last week.’

  ‘I’ve already told you, I went to the Grand Theatre in Leeds. I was there all evening, then I drove straight home.’

  ‘Did you go alone, or with someone?’

  ‘I had to go alone. Peter, I mean Detective Inspector Lambert, was working.’

  Sharpe took her through details of the show she had watched, while DS Peel made notes on a pad she had brought with her. Kate guessed she would phone the theatre to check the details later. Finally, Sharpe changed the subject. ‘Next, I want to know where you were yesterday morning between nine o’clock and eleven. Can you account for your whereabouts then?’

  ‘I could do,’ Kate was calmer now, but I’m not going to. Not unless you give me a compelling reason to.’

  ‘Very well, I have to inform you that at some point during that time, the Reverend Thomas Campion was stabbed to death. We are still awaiting confirmation from the pathologist, but his opinion is that the same weapon was used as in the murders of Ashley Fortune and Sharon Gardner.’

  ‘Not compelling enough,’ Kate told him ‘As you seem to be treating me as the prime suspect in these murders, perhaps I ought to change my mind. You’d better inform the duty solicitor, because I’m not saying another word without legal representation.’

  Sharpe stared at her for a minute, giving DS Peel chance to interrupt. ‘That is your right, of course, but I would urge you to take a more cooperative attitude. It’s in your own interest to help us.’

  Kate got her response in before Sharpe had chance to intercede. ‘Why don’t you stick your advice where the sun don’t shine and piss off back to Leeds where you belong?’ She stood up, preparing to leave.

  But Sharpe hadn’t finished with her. ‘Katherine Jackson, you are under arrest for the murders of Ashley Fortune, Sharon Gardner, and Thomas Campion. You do not have to say anything, but …’

  Half an hour later, with no sign of the solicitor she had requested, Kate was ushered into one of the bleak, cheerless cells at Bainton. Her mind was still reeling from the unexpected development. Her only consolation as she sat on the narrow, hard cot, staring at the obscene graffiti on the wall opposite her, was the secret she held, one she wasn’t prepared to divulge to anyone.

  When Sharpe and DS Peel returned to his office, he saw a note on his desk, requesting that he call Leeds CID. He passed it to her. ‘Deal with that, will you. I need to speak to DI Lambert.’

  ‘Is that wise, given his close relationship with Jackson?’

  ‘Her name is Kate, her rank is that of Detective Sergeant. Kindly remember that, and be aware that apart from the circumstantial evidence of her being in Leeds last Wednesday, we have absolutely nothing concrete to connect her to these murders. One more thing,’ he added, ‘if you persist in trying to influence the way I handle my staff and investigations within my territory, you’ll be returning to Leeds with a reprimand on your disciplinary record and the rank of detective constable.’

  Once DS Peel had left, Sharpe picked up the phone and braced himself to deliver the bad news to Lambert. ‘Peter,’ he told his second in command, ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to make your own meal tonight. We’ve a bit of a problem with Kate.’

  He had only just completed the call when Peel marched back into his office, without knocking, Sharpe noticed. ‘They rang with the PM results,’ she told him. ‘The knife used to kill Campion was definitely the same as in the other two killings, which means that your detective sergeant is responsible for three murders. Now, don’t you think it’s time you and your boss stopped pussyfooting around and handed the case over to professional detectives?’

  It felt strange entering the flat and knowing that Kate wouldn’t be there. Following Sharpe’s phone call, Peter had attempted to see Kate, but had been denied permission, on the grounds that the only officers allowed to interview her were those directly involved in the murder investigation. Frustrated, and not a little annoyed by this, Lambert spent a restless evening, unable even to settle to watch the football on television. He went to bed early, and even that felt unnatural without Kate alongside him. Peter knew that what had started as a casual relationship had developed far beyond that. He was ready to commit to Kate, and thought she was of a similar mind about him. Nevertheless, he felt certain there was something she was hiding from him. It stemmed from her attitude to the suspicion and later the charges that had been levelled against her. He’d had a quiet word with the custody sergeant at Bainton, who had told him Kate was now relaxed, more cheerful, and seemed unconcerned at being a suspect.

  Lambert was also told, via the same source, that when she had been faced with the news of the latest murder, she hadn’t seemed at all surprised. ‘I think Old Bill is more suspicious about her because of her lack of reaction to the news than he was before,’ the sergeant told Lambert.

  That concerned Peter, as did her obvious disinterest in the pressure of being arrested and locked up. Why had she tamely allowed Sharpe and the woman from Leeds to proceed, without insisting on seeing a solicitor before they charged her, or at worst, her union representative? Sharpe had admitted to Lambert that Kate had seemed totally unfazed by the accusations, almost as if she was challenging them to make the charges stick. If that was so, Lambert felt sure from his knowledge of Kate that she was confident that they would not be able to prove a case against her. It almost seemed as if she knew something the others didn’t. But if that was so, what was it she knew? By four o’clock in the morning, with no resolution to the questions buzzing around in his mind, Lambert at last fell into an uneasy sleep, only to awaken a short time later. He made a warm drink and sat behind Kate’s workstation. Without conscious thought he opened her diary and glanced at the page for two days earlier; there was only one entry and the timing gave her a perfect alibi. Now he knew why Kate was so relaxed.

  The first person to arrive at Barrington Plastics
of a morning was invariably the factory foreman. It was only a few minutes after 7 a.m. when he pulled up in the car park, and was surprised to see Frank Barrington’s Jaguar parked in its slot alongside the entrance to the office block. As he passed it, the foreman noticed a film of ice on the windscreen. He raised his eyebrows and gave a silent whistle. ‘Ayup, Frank,’ he muttered, ‘been dipping Percy in the paste bucket, have we?’

  Barrington’s penchant for womanising was legendary. It had got him in trouble once. These days, he often entertained young women in his private office in the evening. The foreman grinned at the euphemism of the word ‘entertained’. It was the first time the boss had stayed overnight, though. This one must be something special. Either that or Barrington had been taking blue pills. That seemed unlikely. Anyone less in need of Viagra the foreman couldn’t imagine.

  By the time these thoughts had gone through his mind, he’d completed his morning routine. He was surprised to find the alarm hadn’t been set, then remembered that it was motion-sensitive. If Frank had been practising horizontal jogging, that would have sent the alarm into a frenzy. The foreman’s salacious grin returned. This would make a great story for the canteen during the lunch break.

  Ten minutes later, having switched the power on for the extruding machines, the foreman returned to the office block and went up to the first floor. He was uncertain about entering Barrington’s office. Frank had a temper, and being disturbed on the nest was likely to provoke a hostile response. He knocked quietly on the door, but got no response. He knocked a second time, louder, but there was still no reply. Concern rising, he opened the door, slightly, then pushed it wide open as he saw his employer. The owner of Barrington Plastics was seated behind his desk as normal. That was the only part of the scene that was normal. It certainly wasn’t normal for him to sit there with his trousers and underpants round his ankles. Nor was there anything normal about the deep knife wounds to his chest and abdomen. There was certainly nothing normal about the huge pool of blood and the spatter that covered the desk, the dead man, and everything within yards of the corpse.