by M A Comley
“Why didn’t your mother help her out when she was alive? She could’ve arranged private medical care for Doreen to help with her hip replacement.” Emotion crept into Lorne’s voice.
“They were both stubborn. Mum was too stubborn to offer, and Doreen was far too stubborn to ask for any sort of handout. Pride and stubbornness, they’re family traits.
“So, when Mum started going on about what I’d inherit one day, I told her I didn’t want it. I felt Doreen needed it more. Mum was livid—she said I was being ungrateful. It took me ages to get back in her good books.”
“Why didn’t you just accept your mother’s wishes and make provisions for your aunt?” Lorne asked as it dawned on her that her initial feelings about this man were correct. She was certain he had nothing to do with either death.
“I knew I could talk my Mum round, but not Doreen.”
“Okay, that makes sense, but why did you leave town so soon after your aunt’s death?”
“Yeah, that’s what I want to know,” Pete piped up, eyeing his chief suspect with growing scepticism.
“I’m in the process of negotiating a rather large contract. I checked with Colleen if she could cope, and she assured me she could. I plan on returning in a few days once the bodies have been released, to sort out a joint funeral.” His eyes misted up, and he cleared his throat before continuing, “Right. I’ve taken the time and trouble to answer your questions, Inspector. Now you can answer one for me.”
“What might that be, Mr. Greenaway?”
“Am I a suspect in my mother’s and aunt’s murders?”
“We’re just covering all the bases. No one is accusing you of anything sinister, I assure you. Thank you for your help. We’ll keep you informed of any progress we make.” Lorne rose from her chair and offered her hand. Pete stood up too but planted his hand deep in his pocket.
Oliver Greenaway shook her hand and held her gaze for the briefest of moments, then he uttered quietly, “I’m a victim in this crime, Inspector, not the perpetrator.”
“I know, Oliver. We’ll get the person who did this, I promise.” She meant every word of it.
“I’ll leave it in your capable hands. My ‘Rottweiler’ will show you out,” he said, smiling.
“You fell for it, didn’t you?” Pete asked in disbelief when they entered the lift.
“If you’re asking if I believe him, then yes, I do. We’ll have to start looking in another direction, Pete, because as I said right from the beginning, I’m ninety-nine-point-nine per cent certain Oliver Greenaway did not kill his mother. Or his aunt, for that matter.”
They stepped out of the building into the warm lunchtime sun, with Pete vigorously shaking his head in disapproval and Lorne vigorously nodding hers in contradiction.
After filling up with petrol and grabbing a quick sandwich at a motorway service station, they headed back up to London. The traffic was worse than anticipated because of road works on the M4, and they arrived back in the office at just before six.
Lorne sensed something was wrong the second they stepped into the incident room. She saw the chief’s outline through the frosted glass window to her office.
“What’s up?” she whispered to Tracy, as she swept past her desk.
“They’ve found the missing girl.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Lorne asked, hopeful.
“She turned up at an allotment, two miles from Chelling Forest. She’s dead, ma’am.”
Shit. When is this bloody nightmare going to end?
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
October 4, 2007
Dusk was descending as they arrived at the allotment. Large drops of rain had started to fall, making the ground muddy underfoot.
Since leaving the station, Lorne had been in a foul mood. Her meeting with the chief hadn’t gone well, and her call home had gone even worse. Her constant sighing in the car warned Pete his usual wisecracks wouldn’t be welcome.
The forensic team were already on site. Cameras clicked, and people shouted “Be careful where you’re stepping!”
The victim, Kim Charlton, lay face down on the wooden floor of a shed situated on the edge of the allotment. Arnaud had a scalpel in his hand and was gently taking samples of blood and soil from the victim’s back.
“Why are you bothering to do that here, Doctor?” Lorne asked as she watched him put the samples into Perspex tubes.
“Ah, Inspector Simpkins, we really must stop meeting like this.”
“I can assure you, Doctor, it’s unintentional on my part,” she snapped and immediately regretted her tone. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.”
Arnaud nodded his acceptance and continued with his work. “I’m taking the samples here because the body is transported to the mortuary facing upwards. Any trace evidence found on the victim’s back would become smudged or possibly wiped off, when the body is placed in the body bag.”
His willingness to hold a proper conversation with her for a change intrigued her. “I see. Why can’t they transport the body the way they found it?”
“Because of lividity.”
“Lividity?”
“More commonly known as livor mortis. It’s when the heart stops pumping the blood. The red blood cells settle according to gravity, and this produces a maroon hue to the skin. We call this the colour of death.
“Funeral directors try to prevent lividity wherever possible. They say it causes loved ones unnecessary grief. Since the high-profile case of O.J. Simpson in the States, a directive has been issued that if the body has to be turned over, then samples must be taken from all exposed areas at the scene.”
“You mean when they failed to take samples of the traces of blood found on Nicole Simpson’s back? Yes, I remember it well. The police came in for a lot of stick on that one.”
“Rightly so! And so did the forensic team. Some of them were morons. They traipsed through the blood of the victims with no protective shoe coverings. Was it intentional? I don’t know. But that night, basic forensic and police protocol were ignored, proving to be detrimental to the prosecutor’s case. I do my utmost to prevent that kind of mishap from happening in this country,” he said as he walked over and stood beside her.
She suddenly felt awkward as his six-foot-four frame towered above her.
“Was there something else, Inspector?” His voice was soft, and he gave her a devastating smile.
She’d never seen this side of him before and was unsure how to react. Lorne’s sudden discomfort baffled her. Jesus, get a grip, woman. She cleared her throat before saying, “I know it’s early, but do you think we could be looking at the same killer?”
“You know how much I dislike conjecture, Inspector. However, yes, I believe there is a connection.”
“Oh, fuck,” Pete cursed, peering at the girl’s naked body over Lorne’s shoulder.
She turned and pushed Pete back outside the shed. “What did the owner of the shed have to say?” Lorne felt relieved to be outside and didn’t have a clue why that was.
“The paramedics are giving him the once-over. He’s in shock. Keeps saying that’s his favourite fork sticking out of her vagina. Poor sod.”
“Was the shed locked?”
“Yeah. He said he found the broken lock on the floor outside.”
“Did he touch anything?” Lorne surveyed their surroundings for possible access and getaway routes. From where she stood, she could only see one.
“No, he saw the body and rushed out, shouting for help. One of his gardening buddies came over, saw the girl’s body, and called 999 straight away. Our boys and the ambulance arrived within minutes.”
“What’s his name?”
“The guy who owns the shed is Jim Wilkinson, and his mate is Frank Gee.”
Wilkinson was sitting on the steps of the ambulance, shaking uncontrollably despite the paramedics wrapping a fleece blanket around his shoulders. Gee was leaning against the vehicle’s door. Both men looked stricken with shock, and the colour ha
d drained from their ageing faces.
“Mr. Wilkinson, I’m Detective Inspector Simpkins. I understand what a shock this must’ve been for you, but are you up to answering a few questions?”
The poor man’s hand shook as he placed the oxygen mask that had been lying in his lap over his nose. His gaze nervously darted in every direction. Finally, he nodded and looked up at his friend for reassurance.
“It’ll be all right, Jim. Just tell the Inspector what you know.” Gee patted his shaking friend on the shoulder.
“What time did you arrive?” Lorne asked as Pete took out his notebook.
Removing the mask, Wilkinson said, “Sometime around four, I suppose. I came down to pick some veggies for my dinner.”
“When did you last come down here?”
“That’d be yesterday afternoon.”
“What time?”
He took another long pull on the oxygen before answering, “I suppose it was earlier than usual because I wanted to see the match. Must’ve been about three—a few of us left at the same time. We watched the match together down the pub, same as usual.”
“And you didn’t return at all yesterday?”
“No, it would’ve been too dark after the match. I never come down here in the dark, miss.”
“Did you see anyone hanging around when you left?”
“No one who shouldn’t be down here, no. A few of the guys who weren’t interested in the game stayed here. I’ll give you their names, if you like.”
“Thanks, that’d be helpful. Is there someone in charge around here?”
“No, there’s usually no need. Nothing untoward usually happens around here. Zac McKinlay and Walter Moore are the guys we left down here. They come down in the afternoons, more or less every day, but I’m afraid I don’t know where they live.”
“That’s okay. We’ll find them. What about you, Mr. Gee? What time did you arrive today?”
“It was probably about two o’clock. I was the first one down here.”
“What about yesterday?”
“Nope, family commitments. I rarely come here on a Sunday.”
“You say no one is actually in charge? Does that mean the gates are always open, that anyone can get in here if they wanted to?”
Frank Gee took over the explanations as his friend sucked in more oxygen from the mask. “That’s right. We’re pretty much left to our own devices. Every now and then, a man from the council comes round—you know, to see if we have any problems.”
“How many people have plots down here?” Pete asked.
“Fifteen, at the last count. I suppose you’ll be needing all their names and numbers?”
“That would help us out considerably. Here’s my card. Are you feeling any better, Mr. Wilkinson?”
“A little, they want to take me off to hospital, but I’m not sure about that.” The old man pulled the blanket tighter around his sloping shoulders.
“It wouldn’t hurt to get checked out. I’m afraid your shed will be out of bounds for a few days,” Lorne apologised, her gaze scouring the area.
“That’s okay. I don’t intend going in there for a while anyway. Jim said that if I need to, I can borrow his tools. I can’t believe this has happened to me again.”
“Again? What do you mean ‘again’? Have you been broken into before?” Pete exchanged glances with Lorne.
“Yeah. Two, maybe three weeks ago.”
Pete asked, “Was anything taken?”
“No, but something was left behind.”
“Oh? What was that?” Lorne asked.
“I was away for two weeks. Went to Benidorm with the wife. I came down here on the Sunday after we got back and found the lock lying on the floor, just like this time, and there was a patch of blood on the floor of the shed.”
“Did you report it to the police?”
“Yeah, they came down, showed no interest whatsoever, said they would log it as a break-in. When I asked them about the blood, they said the burglar must have cut himself and that I should clean it up.”
“You’re kidding. What station was this?” Pete asked, incensed.
“I don’t know. The young copper was only here five minutes.” Wilkinson gulped down more oxygen.
They thanked the two men and wandered round the plots.
“Look into that when we get back, Pete. That’s shoddy policing.”
“Righto, boss. You know, one more murder, and he’ll be a serial killer, according to the experts.”
“Thanks, Pete. That’s just what I needed to hear. Always looking on the bright side of things, aren’t you? With any luck, we’ll catch the bastard before he kills someone else. I can’t seem to get my head round this one. What the hell are we missing? What’s the bloody connection? Apart from the victims all being women, that is.” She wildly kicked at a lump of earth lying in her path.
“If it’s the same killer, the crimes are getting worse, and he’s getting braver.”
“We don’t know how the girl died yet, so how can you possibly know he’s getting worse?”
“Where has she been holed up for the last few days? You can’t tell me the killer didn’t have some fun with her before he finished her off.”
“Shh, keep your voice down. Let’s get back to the station, see what we can come up with. We’ll have to oversee another midnight post-mortem later. I spend more bloody evenings at that damn place than with my own family at the moment.”
“Talking of which, what’s with you and the doc?” Pete nudged her arm with his and gave her a knowing wink.
“What the hell are you on about?” Lorne’s foul mood quickly returned.
“You seemed pretty pally in there when I came in. Usually you do everything you can to keep a safe distance from him, but there you were, side by side, all nice and cosy.”
“We were in a damn five-foot garden shed. I’m afraid it’s your warped mind playing tricks on you again, Pete.”
“Whatever you say, boss. Whatever you say. By the way, are you gonna tell me what the chief said?”
“He gave me a bollocking for not getting anywhere with the case, and he was furious when he heard about the latest murder on his patch. He told me to start pulling suspects in. He’s given us another ten days to get the case solved.” Lorne immediately regretted letting her tongue slip.
“How come?”
She had to come up with a plausible excuse. “Er, budget. We went way over on our last case. He wants this one wrapped up within two weeks.”
“Shit. Does he think we’re supercops or something?”
Lorne shrugged innocently.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Gather around, ladies and gents,” Pete shouted when Lorne and Pete walked into the incident room.
Chairs scraped and the noise of rustling notebooks filled the room as the team gathered.
Lorne took up her position beside the whiteboard, and Pete sat on the edge of the desk nearest to her.
“I know that you’re all doing your best, but we have to dig deeper, think harder. Look outside the box. Feel free to throw any ideas at me as we recap,” Lorne said.
“Victim number one: Belinda Greenaway, a sixty-five-year-old widow. By all accounts, she had no known enemies. Victim number two: Doreen Nicholls, sister of Belinda Greenaway.”
“Twin sister of victim one,” piped up Molly, in her usual bored tone.
“Meaning?”
“And not just twins, but identical twins. We could be looking at a case of mistaken identity,” Molly told the group matter-of-factly.
“It’s a possibility, but Doreen Nicholls was a very inoffensive old dear. Can’t see what the motive would be there,” Pete pointed out.
“Okay, it’s a start. What else have we got?”
“There is one thing, boss,” Mitch told her, hesitantly. “While you were out a courier brought over a package, it’s in your office. Um…It’s from Arnaud’s office.”
“Get it for me, Pete, will you? I should’ve be
en told about this straight away.”
Pete returned with the large brown envelope in his chubby hand and gave it to her.
Lorne quickly scanned the post-mortem report on Doreen Nicholls and jotted down snippets of information on the board beneath the woman’s name. Three hairs found on the body that hadn’t belonged to the victim. Minute green fibres found in the clasp of her watch had been sent for further analysis. The skin under her fingernails belonged to someone other than the victim and traces of blood also found under her nails, came up as O Positive. Great, that accounts for at least thirty-seven per cent of the population of the UK.
Forensics managed to find two decent fingerprints, experts were searching through the database for a match. The soil samples from the shoeprint were similar to those found on the body of Belinda; further analysis was being carried out on both samples. All results were due back at the end of the week.
“What about the sexual aspect to the crimes?” Tracy asked quietly.
“Good thinking. Mitch, check the Sex Offenders Register, see if it highlights any offenders living in that area? You might as well check the paedophile list while you’re at it, because Kim Charlton, the third victim, is only sixteen.”
“That brings me nicely onto Kim Charlton, victim number three. According to her friend, she rang for a taxi the night she went missing, but it didn’t show. Does anybody know what firm she used?”
“I’ll get on to it straight away, ma’am,” John said.
“Tracy, I’d like you to chase up a crime number for me. The allotment shed where Kim’s body was found had been broken into a couple of weeks back. I’d like a word with the idiot who attended the scene, ASAP.”
“Yes, ma’am. By the way, the incident van has been withdrawn from the forest. Their leads didn’t amount to much, I’m afraid.”
“Okay, Tracy. I might want them to set up shop at the allotment. I’ve got to think about that one. I’ll get back to you on that.”
After the meeting, Lorne grabbed a coffee from the vending machine en route to taking refuge in her office.
