Cruel Justice

by M A Comley

  “Am I looking for anything in particular, boss?”

  “Anything that can be perceived as dodgy in Jack’s business. The oil business must be full of people bearing grudges from lost contracts, things like that.”

  “Didn’t her husband die in a helicopter crash?” Pete chimed in.

  “You’re right. See if there was anything suspicious about the accident, Mitch. Molly, I want you to poke around in the son’s background. See if he’s involved in anything untoward.”

  “He lives two hundred miles away,” Molly groaned.

  “Your point being what, exactly?” Lorne bit back.

  “Any likely associates he has down there would hardly come all this way to bump off his old mum, would they?”

  “I don’t know, Molly. Why don’t you do what I suggested and try to find out?” she told the sour-faced DS, who was stretching Lorne’s patience to the limit. She was sick to the back teeth of Molly continually challenging her authority. Lorne wondered briefly if then would be a good time to get the woman transferred out of her team, while the chief was still around to support her.

  The rest of the team watched but remained silent as the two women glowered at each other. Molly broke eye contact first.

  Lorne resumed delegating tasks. “Tracy, I want you to question the neighbours, see if the Greenaways ever had any public arguments—that sort of thing. Find out what Belinda got up to while Jack was away on the rigs?”

  “Sure, boss. By the way, the incident van will be on-site by ten this morning, as instructed.” The new recruit looked pleased with herself.

  Lorne smiled and wondered why the other woman on the team couldn’t respond to her in the same respectful manner. Tracy had been like a breath of fresh air since she’d joined the team three months before—volunteering to do any job, however menial, just to show everyone how eager she was to learn and progress. Twenty and blonde, with the looks and figure all the men in the team appreciated, Tracy was refreshingly different from the sullen thirty-year-old Molly, who dug her heels in when asked to carry out the simplest of tasks.

  “John, see what you can find out about their finances. Try to access both personal and business accounts. Anything inappropriate, I want to know about it.”

  “Okay, boss. What about the son?” John, another exceptional member of her team, was a renowned workaholic and one of Pete’s best mates.

  “Go for it. Pete, I want you to get access to the Greenaway’s house. We’ll go over there this afternoon, once the conference is out of the way,” Lorne said.

  “Okay, what time is the son due?”

  “He’s flying up from Cornwall—should be here about ten. I’ll take him to the mortuary. If the traffic’s bad and he knows we’re on a tight schedule, he might think twice about wanting to see his mum—fingers crossed, anyway. He’s aware of what time the conference is.”

  The phone rang on Pete’s desk. While he answered it, Lorne brought the meeting to a close.

  “Hold on a minute,” Pete said.

  Lorne raised an eyebrow.

  Pete put the caller on hold as Lorne crossed the short distance to his desk. “The river police have just picked up a black bag in the Coll River. It contained a right arm.”

  “Shit. Tell them to get the bag over to Arnaud’s office right away.”

  “There’s something else.” He looked perturbed.

  “What?”

  “The desk sergeant says a girl was reported missing last night in the vicinity of Chelling Forest.”

  “It could be a coincidence, Pete. Get the details, and we’ll follow it up later.”

  As Pete continued his conversation with the desk sergeant, Lorne headed for her office. Like Pete, she feared the day had suddenly spun off in an ominous direction. Is it a coincidence, or do we have yet another murder on our hands? Could we be dealing with a serial killer?

  She hunted in her drawer for the packet of Nurofen she hoped would ease the throbbing pain in her head. If she did something about it immediately, she’d be able to handle the strain of the conference far better.

  Oliver Greenaway arrived at ten on the dot. Considering he’d just lost his mother, he appeared to be holding it together remarkably well. They left for the mortuary immediately.

  Thankfully, Arnaud insisted he couldn’t let Oliver view his mother’s body; it wouldn’t have been proper.

  Oliver’s resolve crumbled. Collapsing into a chair, he cradled his head in his cupped hands and cried, repeating the same words over and over. “Why Mum? Tell me why someone would do this to her? She was the kindest, most caring person who ever lived. I’ll get the bastard if it’s the last thing I do—I’ll get him. I’ll make sure he suffers the way he made her suffer.”

  Lorne stepped forwards to comfort Oliver, but Arnaud caught her arm. Lorne suspected he was accustomed to such reactions and knew Oliver’s response was an important part of the grieving process some distraught family members had to go through.

  It brought home to her how much she cherished her own parents and made a mental note to give them a ring as soon as she could. She felt even guiltier when she realised that because of her recent heavy work schedule, it had been a month since she last contacted them.

  Lorne took Oliver to the canteen for a much-needed cup of coffee.

  Pete caught up with them ten minutes later. “Boss, the conference is due to start.”

  “Are you sure you’re up to this, Oliver?” Lorne asked.

  “Would you be, if that was your mother lying in the mortuary?” He’d barely uttered a word since breaking down.

  “I think it would be good if you came along, but it isn’t obligatory. The choice is yours.”

  “I’ll be fine. I want that bastard to see how he’s destroyed me and what’s left of my family,” Oliver said, his fighting spirit quickly returning.

  The Chief Inspector opened the conference then handed over to Lorne. She went over the suspected times, dates, and places of the crime and called for any witnesses to come forward to help with their enquiries. She purposely neglected to inform the media of any of the injuries Belinda had incurred.

  Then it was Oliver’s turn. For a moment he hesitated, searching for the right words; but as he became more comfortable in front of the camera his tone grew more aggressive. “Help the police find the bastard who did this. Who knows—your mother, sister, or wife could be this maniac’s next victim!”

  It was a cry from the heart, which Lorne knew was sure to strike a chord with the viewers. His sincerity also strengthened Lorne’s belief that Oliver had nothing to do with the murders.

  After the conference, Oliver accompanied the two detectives to his mother’s home. The house was more like a mansion, situated on an exclusive estate on the outskirts of the village of Bournley. The tree-lined drive was an indication of the grandeur they were about to encounter. Landscaped gardens surrounded the immaculate White House.

  “My dad was fascinated by the American presidential home,” Oliver enlightened the two detectives.

  “You don’t say!” Pete said, picking his chin up off the path.

  “Why on earth did your mother continue living here after your father died?” Lorne was awestruck by the sheer size and elegance of the property.

  “She insisted that Dad was still around her and refused to leave the security she felt in the home. That seems a bit ironic now, after what’s happened to her…”

  “Did your mother employ staff?”

  “They’ve been with my mother and father for years. Surely you don’t suspect them?”

  “Give Pete their names and addresses. They’ll have to be checked out.”

  They searched every room, drawer, and cupboard in the house. Lorne felt like an intruder as she rifled through the dead woman’s belongings. The more they hunted, the more their frustrations grew. They found nothing. No signs of a break-in or of Belinda being killed there. Again their investigation had hit a brick wall.

  Was this a random killing, afte
r all?

  Two frustrating hours later, they left the grieving Oliver to his memories and returned to the station.

  En route, Pete asked, “What do you make of the son?”

  “In what respect?” Lorne shot him a puzzled glance.

  “Can we regard him as a suspect?”

  “Jesus, Pete, I think you’ve been watching too many cop shows on that damn telly of yours.” She laughed, but then realisation came crashing down on her. “Oh, I get it. You think he killed her for the inheritance money, is that it?”

  “Stranger things have happened.” He shrugged his broad shoulders.

  “You haven’t quite grasped it yet, have you, Pete?”

  “What’s that?” It was his turn to look puzzled.

  “You haven’t quite mastered the knack of gauging people’s reactions.”

  “You mean we’re back to women’s bloody intuition again? Well, I’m sorry to have to inform you, boss, but I ain’t no woman with no magic powers. I have to go about things my way, which happens to be the force’s way. So, if I’ve got suspicions about someone, I have to follow up on those suspicions.”

  “That’s why we’re such good partners—because I can share my God-given ability with you. Read my lips: There is no way Oliver Greenaway killed his mother. It is definitely not an avenue I’m willing to pursue, got it?”

  “Don’t blame me if you’re wrong. There’s always that saying, ‘Look at the in-laws before looking for the outlaws.’”

  “Another wonderful analogy from one of those American cop shows you love so much. What else have we got?”

  “Hey don’t knock it, honey,” he said in the lousiest American accent he could muster. In his normal cockney voice, he said, “Absolutely sweet FA, which is why we should check him out. Unless the doc comes up with a match to the mud found on the body, we might as well wrap this case up now.”

  “What about the staff?”

  “I’ll get someone to do some digging when we get back.”

  “Chase up any leads we have regarding the girl who was reported missing last night, as well. The evening news will be airing the conference soon, we should get a flurry of calls from that.”

  The rest of the team had also had a very disappointing day. The helicopter accident had proven to be just that, an accident. The bank accounts showed nothing dubious, except that Belinda Greenaway had been a very wealthy woman. It didn’t take a genius to work that one out. The neighbours said that the Greenaways had been a wonderful couple and never any bother. Finally, much to Pete’s annoyance, Oliver came up smelling of roses—Mr. Squeaky, Squeaky Clean, in fact.

  “And the missing girl?” Lorne asked her partner over a cup of coffee and a jam doughnut in her office.

  “She’s sixteen. Kim Charlton. Left her friend’s house at about eleven. She called for a taxi. When it failed to show up, she got impatient and decided to walk. Her house is about two miles from her friend’s.” Pete reeled off the facts he’d gathered from one of the team and took a huge messy bite of his doughnut.

  “Does she make a habit of going missing?”

  “Generally, she’s a hundred per cent reliable. But according to her parents, she’s recently started going out with a boy they don’t fully approve of,” he spluttered through a large mouthful of cake.

  “Did the parents call him?”

  “Yeah, he was on the other side of town with his mates. Hasn’t seen her since the weekend.”

  “Get someone round there to question him. He might be telling the parents what they want to hear.”

  “Anything else, boss?”

  “Get Mitch to check out the staff—previous employers, reliability. You know the kind of thing.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Every news channel ran the footage of the conference that evening, and the local newspaper carried the headline: “CORPSE FOUND IN COPSE”. Somehow they had tracked down Doreen for an interview, and she was pictured holding a photo of her taken with her sister. The woman looked ghastly, and Lorne was livid at the paper’s intrusion into her grief. She made a mental note to call round to see the old lady the following day.

  “I don’t believe it,” his sister cried in disbelief as she stared at the front page of the local evening paper.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “That woman.”

  “What bloody woman?” he demanded, tired of the guessing game.

  “The woman you killed…‌You made a mistake.”

  He snatched the paper from her trembling hand. His gaze darted across the main storyline, and his pulse raced as the anger mounted. He shot his companion a venomous look.

  “What do you mean, I made a fucking mistake? You’re the one who gave me the information, you dozy cow.” He threw the paper across the room, and it drifted to the floor, the front cover landing face up, taunting him further.

  “I…‌I thought it was her, when I saw her in the paper giving that award. I put two and two together and…”

  “Came up with five. What have I told you about getting your facts right?” He jumped up from his seat and towered over her. His companion reacted quickly, putting her hands up to cover her face. Noticing her trembling, he took pity on her and knelt beside her, taking her in his arms he gently rocked her back and forth. He started singing a lullaby that had soothed her in their childhood. She hummed along to the tune and sighed contentedly in his strong arms.

  His thoughts returned to his childhood; the beatings he and his sibling endured from their over-dominant parents; the sexual favours he had to perform on his mother and father and the many friends they invited into their shabby home.

  “But, Dad, please. I don’t want to do that,” he had pleaded from the age of six, but his begging had been shamefully ignored. And when he refused to accommodate one of his father’s friends, he was beaten to within an inch of his life and thrown in the cellar for days.

  He became a recluse at school, but no one bothered to analyse him. He was just another pupil they had to deal with. Years passed, and when his sister was nine and tiny breasts developed, their father turned his attention to her.

  The boy struck his father on more than one occasion, trying to defend his sister, and his mother clobbered him with a bar from behind. He was locked in the cellar while his sister was forced to carry out unspeakable sexual acts on groups of five or more men. The boy heard his sister’s screams. He felt ashamed and riddled with guilt that he was unable to help her. To protect her.

  After that terrible ordeal, he decided to ask for help at school. But the school stupidly told his parents what he’d confided. The children’s lives were a darn sight worse after that. Pain and anger had gnawed away at him for months before finally he gained enough courage to end their ordeal.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  After a good night’s sleep—and before Tom woke—Lorne set off early for the station. The dewy autumn morning caused her to shiver slightly. She switched on the car heater to combat the chill lingering in the car. It pleased her to hear the radio station still running the conference and the number for the information line. That usually generated a good number of leads, so she prepared herself for a long day ahead.

  Call after call flooded in. They had to draft in extra personnel to man the phones. Lorne and Pete personally chased up a few of the calls, but they proved to be hoaxes, stupid ignoramuses in search of their fifteen minutes of fame.

  Lunchtime came and went. They sent out for sandwiches while continuing to man the phones. Lorne delved into her bag and pulled out her mobile phone, ringing her sister as she ate her ham sandwich. “Hi, Jade, how’s things?”

  “Huh, so much for calling me back the next day.” Her sister admonished her in a mock hurt tone.

  “God, did I really say that? Sorry, hon. It’s been a tad chaotic around here.”

  “Yeah, I heard how chaotic it’s been from Tom, especially in your bedroom.”

  “You’re kidding, Tom told you abou…?” Is nothing sacred in m
y private life?

  “Every last detail. Especially the bit about—”

  “That’s enough. You wait till I see that bloody husband of mine.”

  “Aw, come on, Sis. Don’t drop me in it. Tom will never trust me again.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping.” The phone on her desk rang. “Hang on a minute, hon. I’ve got a call coming in.” Lorne reached for her work phone as her sister protested about being interrupted.

  “Boss, I have Doreen Nicholls on the line for you?” Tracy told her.

  “Shit, I forgot to ring her. Give me thirty seconds, then put her through, will you?”

  “Will do, ma’am.”

  “Hi, Jade. Sorry, but…‌I’ve got to go—there’s a really important call waiting for me.”

  “It’s only important if it’s to do with work, isn’t it, Lorne? Well, family is just as important, you know.”

  Lorne said a quiet goodbye and picked up her office phone. “Doreen, hello. How are you?”

  “Bearing up, dear. Any news for me?” The older woman sounded weary.

  “The response from the appeal has been phenomenal, but it will take us a few days to plough through all the leads. Is Colleen still with you?”

  “She’s just popped out for some groceries. I don’t keep much in the larder nowadays, you see. Can’t afford to. Oliver came to see us last night.”

  “The conference and trip to the mortuary was a daunting experience for him. How’s he holding up?” Lorne heard the woman’s front doorbell chime in the background.

  “Just a minute, dear. That’ll be Colleen. She must have forgotten her key.”

  The phone clattered onto the table, and Lorne heard Doreen shuffle away from the phone. Muffled voices filled the earpiece, and Lorne busied herself with some papers.

  The woman’s piercing scream sent a chill rushing through her.

  “Doreen? Doreen are you there?” Lorne shouted down the phone.

  She heard a man yelling, then several thuds as if something or someone was being struck, and Doreen’s pitiful cries for help, followed by three more heart-wrenching screams.