[Lorne Simpkins 01.0] Cruel Justice

by M A Comley

  “Poor Doreen, indeed. Even though she had a bad heart and was still very weak from her recent operation, she still managed to summon up enough strength to put up a fight for her life. The defence wounds across her hands and arms tell us that.”

  “She had an angina attack when I told her about her sister’s death.”

  “I’m not surprised. She had arteriosclerosis.”

  Lorne frowned, confused.

  Arnaud explained, “Which basically means the flow of blood through the coronary arteries is restricted. The result is a shortage of oxygen travelling to the heart muscle. In my opinion, it was at an advanced stage. Her life would have been shortened considerably by the condition.”

  The doctor sounded surprisingly emotional. Is this his way of showing me he has compassion?

  “It’ll be of little consolation to her family. But it may ease their pain a little, knowing she didn’t have long to live, anyway. When will the forensic results be back, Doctor?”

  “Twenty-four, maybe forty-eight, hours, as it’s the weekend—for some of us, at least. I will let you know. We found several hairs and fibres on the body; a piece of dirt, possibly from the offender’s shoe; skin under her fingernails; and a few fingerprints on the broom. The killer was very sloppy this time. He even managed to leave a bloody shoe print on the doorstep. Perhaps distant sirens scared him off. It’s a shame your colleagues weren’t a little nearer when you called for their assistance.”

  “She lives on the outskirts of town, in a small village. The closest squad car was on another call at the time,” she said, sharply, sticking up for her colleagues.

  “Never mind. The deed is done now. I’ll wait to hear from you.”

  Lorne left the mortuary alone. The frosty night air caught her off guard, and she pulled her jacket tight around her already chilled body. Pete had insisted he would accompany her to the post-mortem, but she had ordered him to go home and get some rest. She suspected the days ahead of them would be long and laborious. It would’ve been pointless for both of them to be dead on their feet.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  That Sunday, Lorne and Pete were the only ones in the office. She went over the findings of the post-mortem with him and asked how far he’d got with his quest to nail Oliver as their prime suspect.

  “Bearing in mind that it was Saturday yesterday, I reckon I did well. I tracked down Belinda’s solicitor at about five o’clock. He was on the golf course at High Wycombe—not too happy about being disturbed, I can tell you.” He paused to take a sip of coffee. “Anyway, after his initial unwillingness to co-operate, and with a little friendly persuasion from yours truly, he finally came up trumps.”

  “In what way?” Lorne knew how much Pete liked to make a mountain out of the tiniest molehill.

  A cocky tone slipped into his voice as he said, “Well, guess who the main beneficiary of Belinda Greenaway’s will is?”

  “Stop building your part up, Pete. Just give me the damn facts.”

  “Touchy this morning, ain’t we? Anyway, Mr. Franklyn-Lewis, Belinda’s solicitor, told me that ninety per cent of her money was heading in Doreen’s direction.”

  “Really, and what do you glean from this snippet of information?” she said, raising an expectant eyebrow.

  “Actually, I glean quite a lot from what he said. Especially as he went on to tell me she changed her will a few months ago because she’d fallen out with her son.” He finished reading from his notebook and triumphantly threw it on the desk between them.

  “Did he say why?” Lorne sat forwards in her chair as the implications behind these new findings sank in.

  “Nope. All she would tell him was that it was a personal matter, one she didn’t wish to discuss.”

  “It nearly chokes me to admit this, but I think you might have stumbled onto something significant.”

  “I told you, boss. He’s shifty, and I don’t need any goddamn women’s intuition to tell me that, either.”

  “Hang on a minute, before you get too smug. If Belinda’s money was on its way to Doreen, what happens now?”

  “I’m not with you?”

  “Well, wouldn’t Doreen’s money go to her own daughter, Colleen?”

  “I guess so.” He shrugged.

  “So why in God’s name would Oliver kill his aunt?”

  “Because he’s not as clever as he looks. Maybe his next victim is going to be his cousin.” Pete’s eyes beamed.

  “Nope, sorry, Pete, I don’t buy it. He seems a pretty shrewd individual to me. There’s another matter we should be considering here, too.”

  “What’s that?” His brow crinkled.

  “The sexual aspect of the case. Would he subject family members to that kind of sick behaviour?”

  “I beg to differ with you on that one. There are some sick folks out there. Anyway, I ain’t finished yet. I also got in touch with his firm, Callick Oil, and they told me things haven’t been going too well for him over the last two or three years.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Apparently, he’s lost the company millions. He promised to bring in more business if and when he got promotion, but instead he lost them a few lucrative contracts.”

  “I thought Oliver came up squeaky clean when we did the initial checks on him?” Lorne searched through the case file.

  “Depends who’s asking the questions,” he said, tapping the side of his nose. “Let’s just say my charm works wonders, on occasion.”

  “You’re a good cop, Pete, if a bit highly strung and lacking in foresight, at times. But basically, I wouldn’t be without you.” Her smile broadened as she noticed the colour rising in his chubby cheeks.

  “Aw, give it a rest, boss. As you’re always telling me, we make a good team.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” she said. They raised their coffee cups and clinked them together.

  “Don’t you find it strange, though?” Pete asked as he settled back in his chair.

  “What are you talking about now?”

  “If your aunt had just been murdered right after your mother, wouldn’t you be down to the cop shop straight away, demanding to know what the hell was going on?”

  “I’d be there before the ink had time to dry in the attending officer’s notebook. Do we know where he’s staying?”

  “I’ll have to check, but I think it’s the Deerfellow Hotel in town?”

  “You check while I tidy up here. I think it’s time we paid Oliver Greenaway a little visit.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Pete hurried out the door like a man on a mission.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The receptionist at the swanky four-star Deerfellow Hotel informed them Mr. Greenaway had checked out at ten that morning.

  With their suspicions heightened that their prime suspect had left town, Lorne and Pete decided to pay Colleen a visit. Maybe she’d be able to shed some light on what they had discovered about Belinda’s will.

  “How could you think such a thing? Oliver loved his mother, and he always visited my mum whenever he was in town.” Colleen nervously twisted a tissue in a figure eight around her fingers.

  “Some details have come to our attention that makes us suspect all’s not well with your cousin. Has anything strange happened over the last few months, anything at all?” Lorne asked.

  “I’m trying to think. At the back of my mind, there is something I found strange. Give me a few moments, and I’m sure it’ll come to me. My mind’s all jumbled up because of what happened to Mum. I’ve got to go to the mortuary today. Don’s coming with me.” She smiled at her husband as he entered the room, carrying a tray holding four mugs of coffee.

  Don handed round the drinks, then sat on the sofa next to his wife. He placed an arm around her shoulder and asked, “What’s up, Col?”

  “About a month ago—it might’ve been two—something happened with Aunt Belinda. I can’t remember what it was, can you?” Her frown deepened as her frustration to think clearly mounted.

  “Tha
t’s right, Belinda and your mother came to Sunday lunch, and we were shocked by what she had to say.”

  “Was it something to do with changing her will?” Lorne asked.

  Don ran his fingers through his hair and looked pensive. “No, she definitely didn’t tell us about that. She did tell us she was angry with Oliver about something, though. What the hell was it?”

  “I know!” Colleen seemed pleased with herself. “Bel—that’s what we used to call her; she hated being called ‘Aunt Belinda’—she was livid with Oliver for losing one of the firm’s biggest contracts. Jack—her husband—had treated that customer with kid gloves, bowed and scraped to their every need, because of how valuable they were. But Oliver was rebelling for some reason, he said he was fed up with having to kiss arse all the time.”

  “How did Belinda find out?” Lorne asked.

  “The chairman of the board rang her. He was Jack’s best friend. He’d stayed close friends with Bel after his death. He promoted Oliver to director. I think he felt obligated—guilt played a huge part in his decision. After all, Oliver’s father did die on board one of the firm’s helicopters.”

  “Did you see Oliver after he fell out with his mother?”

  “No, he kept his distance. I rang him because he hadn’t replied to our christening invitation. He apologised and said he wouldn’t be able to make it. I was furious and put the phone down on him.” Sadness filled her features. Colleen gazed over at the christening photo of her daughter nestled in her mother’s arms.

  “What was his excuse for not attending?”

  “He said work commitments meant he was working seven days a week and couldn’t afford to take the time off.”

  “When you met up after his mother’s death, how did he seem to you?” Lorne probed carefully.

  “That’s really hard to answer, because he’s a difficult man to figure out. He was an only child, spoilt rotten—always carried a rather large chip on his shoulder when he was growing up.”

  “Was he upset, do you think?” Pete pressed, eager to pick up Oliver.

  Colleen looked flustered by Pete’s insistence. “I suppose so. I did find it strange that he wanted to see Bel’s body, especially when—you know, the way it had been…‌mutilated. I’m glad you managed to talk him out of it, Inspector.” She wiped away the tears that had started to roll down her face.

  Lorne noticed Don’s expression pleading with the detectives to give Colleen a break. She took the hint, and they left soon after, leaving the couple to their grief.

  On the car ride back to the station, Pete said, “I have to agree with her, actually. We both thought it strange when he demanded to see his ma’s body like that.”

  “Hmm,” Lorne said, contemplating their next move.

  “Will the boss sanction a visit to Cornwall? I know funds are low, but I think we should pay Oliver a visit ASAP, don’t you?”

  “I’m sure the chief will want us to go down there. Leave him to me.”

  “Any chance we can call it a day soon?” Pete glanced at his watch.

  “Some big game on the telly you want to watch?”

  “The boys are meeting their biggest rivals today. I just thought if we couldn’t do much down at the station, it being Sunday and all, I could make it home for the kick-off.”

  Pete was a lifelong Gooner, just like Tom. Both besotted with Arsenal, they could talk together for hours about the team, especially about the fabulous youngsters Arsene Wenger was developing. Their favourite saying at the moment was ‘Who needs Patrick Vieira when you have a talent like eighteen-year-old Cesc Fabregas?’

  Lorne had managed to get them tickets to last season’s cup final, when the team had beaten Man Utd in a penalty shoot-out. Vieira had moved to Juventus straight after that match. Lorne always made out that she couldn’t give a damn about football, but secretly she enjoyed it just as much as they did. God forbid if Pete ever found out the truth; her life wouldn’t be worth living. Their crime solving statistics would drop overnight if her partner climbed on his soapbox every day, especially if the words Abramovich or Chelsea happened to be mentioned.

  “I have an idea. Why don’t you come over and see the match at our house? We’ll pick up a few beers on the way, and I’ll knock up some food before the game starts?”

  “That’d be outstanding, boss! You sure Tom won’t mind?”

  “He’ll be chuffed to bits to have someone else in the house who knows the offside rule as well as he does.” She laughed as she crunched into gear and headed for the off-licence on Drake Street.

  The Gunners lost, unfortunately. Arsene Wenger said the team were going through a transitional period. The team just looked disjointed to Lorne.

  After drowning his sorrows a little too deeply, Pete ended up spending an uncomfortable night on Lorne’s sofa.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  As Lorne came down the stairs at seven the next morning, she heard Pete shout, “Get off me, mutt.”

  Henry must’ve woken him up. She bounded into his makeshift, bedroom, fully clothed and ready for work. “Morning, Pete. Sleep well?” she asked loudly, with a devilish glint in her eye. She had little sympathy for anyone suffering from a hangover.

  “Can you keep the decibels down this morning, boss? And to answer your question, I can’t remember if I slept well or not.” He steadied himself by gripping the back of the sofa as he rose.

  Henry jumped up at him.

  “Oh, no…‌The room’s starting to sway.” Pete dropped back down onto the sofa. “Just give me a minute or two to wake up properly, will you? There’s a good boy.”

  Henry barked his agreement.

  Lorne suppressed a chuckle. “You’ve got five minutes. Come through to the kitchen when you’re able to stand up. Breakfast won’t be long.”

  “Black strong coffee will do, and plenty of it.” That time, he stood up successfully, and he staggered his way up to the bathroom.

  The tempting smell of bacon wafted through the house, and when he appeared in the kitchen, Lorne thrust a full English breakfast on the counter in front of him.

  “Guess coffee looks different in my house,” he said. “Don’t order me to eat this, boss.”

  “Get it down your neck. It’ll do you good. Christ, it’s like having another kid around the place when you stay over.”

  “Remind me not to stay over next time, if this is how you treat your guests. Force feeding ain’t very hospitable, now is it?”

  “Two minutes and counting, Pete,” Lorne folded her arms and glanced up at the clock on the wall.

  She backed down when she saw how much he was enjoying his breakfast. Ten minutes later, they were on their way to Cornwall.

  It took them almost four hours to get to Callick Oil. Pete slept most of the journey, giving Lorne the opportunity to mull over Oliver’s motives. She was still having trouble convincing herself that Oliver was the killer. But until they had another suspect in mind, it was a necessary avenue they had to explore.

  They reached the top floor by the glass lift that rose on the outside of the building. The view over the rolling hills was breath-taking. But the speed of the lift had a detrimental effect on Pete’s stomach. Against the odds, he somehow managed to hang on to his breakfast.

  Oliver’s secretary was a smartly dressed, well-spoken, middle-aged woman, who was surprised by their unannounced visit. “I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time. Mr. Greenaway never sees anyone without an appointment,” she said, guarding his office as if it contained the crown jewels.

  Pete grabbed the woman by the shoulders and guided her back to her desk. “He’ll see us, darlin’. We’re old friends.”

  While Pete distracted the secretary, Lorne took the opportunity to step into Oliver’s office.

  He appeared stunned by the intrusion. “Detective Inspector, what can I do for you?”

  “We were in the area,” Pete blurted out, barging into the office behind her.

  “I tried to stop them, but he manhandled me,” th
e secretary whined over Pete’s broad shoulders.

  “It’s okay, Trisha. Hold all my calls for the time being, will you?” Oliver stepped around the desk to shoo the woman out the door.

  “She’s a bit of a Rottweiler. Thought you executive types went for curvy dumb blondes for secretaries,” Pete said.

  “She’s usually capable of keeping the wolves from the door,” Oliver bit back, obviously disliking Pete’s tone.

  Lorne interjected, “We need to ask you a few questions about your mother, if you don’t mind, Mr. Greenaway?”

  “I thought I’d answered all your questions already.” He returned to his chair and motioned for them to sit down opposite him.

  “What about the will?” Pete blurted out. Lorne shot him one of her back off looks, and he shuffled his feet sheepishly.

  “What about it?”

  “Were you aware that your mother changed it a short time ago?” Lorne asked.

  “Totally aware, thank you.”

  “Can we ask why your mother would cut you out of her will?”

  “She didn’t. If you had bothered to do your research properly, you would know she left me ten per cent of her savings—which amounts to a very tidy sum—plus the house.”

  “Up until two months ago, you were the sole beneficiary, were you not?” Lorne asked, studying the man’s reactions carefully.

  “That’s correct.”

  “I repeat, why would your mother change her will like that?”

  “Actually, it was my suggestion,” he admitted, surprising the two detectives.

  “Oh?”

  “You look shocked, Inspector. Yes, my mother was a very wealthy woman, but then, I’m a very wealthy man.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Greenaway. You gave up your mother’s millions because you already have millions of your own?”

  “Half correct. I gave up the capital but kept the house that’s worth around three million pounds. Forgive me, Inspector, but have I broken a law somewhere that I’m unaware of?”