[Lorne Simpkins 01.0] Cruel Justice

by M A Comley

  Her secret was out. How the hell was she going to get out of this one? “There was an article in Pete’s paper the other day about a new player Arsenal recently signed. You don’t have to be a flippin’ genius to work it out. I am a DI, after all.”

  Pete and Tom eyed her suspiciously but decided not to challenge her. She stood and went through to the kitchen to fix something to eat. Not having much of an appetite, she settled on another cheese and tomato omelette. She poked her head in the lounge and asked Pete if he wanted to stay for dinner. He declined, and she felt the panic rise within. Her safety net was deserting her and heading for the front door.

  “Thanks for paving the way for me, Pete,” she whispered as he made to leave.

  “See you in the morning, boss. I made Tom aware of the stress you’ve been under today,” he assured her before closing the door behind him.

  Lorne crept back into the kitchen and sat at the breakfast bar to eat her omelette. Putting the last mouthful of dinner in her mouth, she looked up to see Tom leaning against the doorframe watching her. Their eyes locked, searching for answers to questions that neither of them were prepared to ask.

  In the sickening silence, Lorne washed her plate, placed the bottle of wine back in the fridge and tried to walk past him, but he refused to budge. She took a step back, pleading with her eyes to be allowed to pass. He stood firm, so she returned to her seat and waited for him to speak.

  The tension was palpable. Neither of them knew where to begin. It was up to one of them to start a conversation that could either break or make their marriage. But which of them was it going to be? She was weary, exhausted beyond comprehension. His selfishness caused her blood to boil—all she wanted to do was curl up in her soft, warm, comfortable bed and go to sleep.

  Instead, Lorne asked, “Did Charlie enjoy her stay at grandma’s?”

  “Yup.”

  “It’s been one hell of a day,” she said, hoping to gain a little sympathy.

  It didn’t come. “I know. Pete told me.”

  Her emotional state caught up with her, and tears welled in her eyes. “What do you want from me, Tom?”

  “I want you to be my wife. Is that too much to ask? Apparently, it is.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, I want things back to the way they were before you got this fucking promotion.”

  The vicious impact of his angry words slapped her in the face. “Don’t raise your voice. Charlie will hear.”

  “Your consideration for our child is touching, if a trifle false.” His face was taut with an anger she’d never witnessed before. His handsome features became twisted and ugly.

  “False. In what way is it false?”

  “If you had any, any consideration for your child, you’d be here when she came home from school. Be here when she ate her dinner. But it’s more convenient for me to do it, isn’t it? Saves you the trouble.”

  “That’s not fair, Tom.” His words twisted her stomach into knots.

  “Life ain’t fair. But you know that, don’t you, Lorne? To you, life is about locking up criminals rather than spending time with your family. When was the last time you took your daughter swimming? Bloody months ago, that’s when. When was the last time you sat down and helped Charlie with her maths homework? Months ago. But then you’ve got someone to fall back on, haven’t you? Well, supposing I walked out on you tonight. What the fuck would you do then?”

  His words frightened her—as was his intention, she suspected. He was right. It had been months since she’d spent any quality time with either of them. Maybe Charlie had received a bad report from school he wasn’t telling her about? She couldn’t rely on Tom to help their daughter with her homework because he wasn’t the sharpest chisel in the toolbox—he’d always wanted to play with cars rather than take an interest in studying at school. The teachers at one point had thought he was dyslexic—in truth, he’d just been plain lazy—so they’d let him plod away at his own slow pace.

  What the fuck would she do if he walked out on her and their marriage?

  All these questions, and she didn’t have a single answer to give him. “Tom…‌please, you know how difficult my job is. As I recall, you supported me in my application for promotion.”

  “That was before I knew how much time you’d actually spend at home. Do you have any idea what my state of mind is these days? These four walls, that’s all I see twenty-four hours a day. And do you care? Huh, don’t make me laugh. You couldn’t give a shit about it. You don’t even realise it, do you?”

  She was too stunned to answer him. Too ashamed to look at him, and he was quick to point this out.

  “What’s wrong, Lorne? Hit the nail on the head, have I?” He took a big stride towards her, and she cowered. “Christ, did you think I was going to hit you?” he asked incredulously.

  “I don’t know.”

  “It proves we no longer know each other the way we used to. It’s pointless going on.” His shoulders slumped in defeat as he plonked down on the stool beside her.

  “Please, Tom. Don’t say that. I love you.” She placed her hand on his arm.

  “Do you, Lorne? Or do you just see me as someone you can rely on to take good care of your child?”

  “You mean our child?”

  “When it suits you, she’s our child; other times, I just don’t know what she is. A noose around your neck maybe?”

  “How can you say that? I love her as much as I love you.”

  “Then for Christ’s sake, start showing it. Show some interest in your family for a change. Take last night, for instance. I told you Charlie would be spending time with her gran. It was an ideal opportunity for us to spend time together. But no, you told me you had to work late.”

  “You said you were going out with the boys for the night,” she cried in anguish.

  “If you’d asked me not to go, I would have thought up an excuse to get out of it. I would have done that for you, Lorne. For you. What the hell do you do for me nowadays? Think carefully before you answer.” A sneer came with the warning.

  She wracked her brain and had trouble remembering the last time she had done anything nice for him. For how long had he bottled up all that anger inside? Was this what had been wrong with him over the last few months? Why hadn’t he mentioned it before then? Was she that wrapped up in her work, that her family life took a poor second place to it?

  “It’s difficult, isn’t it? I’ll tell you when it was: four months ago to the day; you looked after Charlie while I went fishing with Dan. Four shitting months since I’ve had a single day off. Whereas you—well, what can I say? When was the last time you did the vacuuming, cleaned the bathroom, picked up a duster—”

  Her hands flew up to cover her ears. “Stop it. Stop it, Tom. I’m begging you—”

  He strode over to the cupboard above the breakfast bar and pulled out a tumbler, which he filled with whisky from the new bottle that had been sitting on the countertop beside him.

  “That’s your answer to our problems, is it?” Lorne asked, voice shaking with annoyance.

  “Let me know if you can think of a better one,” he shot back, and he emptied his half-filled glass in one gulp.

  “I’m tired. I’m going to bed now, Tom.”

  As she walked out of the kitchen, she heard the chink of the bottle hitting his glass. Let him get on with it. Let him drown his sorrows. What do I care, anyway?

  Weary, she climbed the stairs to her bedroom. The trouble was she did care, but she was also confused. Did she care enough to save her marriage? And what part did Jacques Arnaud play in her confusion?

  She found an old pair of pyjamas to wear, just in case Tom had any intention of making up with her when he finally came to bed.

  Sleep evaded her. Every time she attempted to close her eyes, the terrifying images of the charred body burned her eyelids. Beads of sweat seeped from every pore. Guilt-ridden, that was what she was. “What if?” was a terrible question to ask
, but it was a question she punished herself with, over and over again. What if she had been there to take the killer’s call? What if they had at least started bringing in suspects? What if she didn’t have this fixation with Jacques? What if she was the next name on the killer’s list? And finally, what if he did eventually kill her, and she never got to see her daughter grow up?

  She held her breath, pretending to be asleep when Tom staggered into the room and got into bed beside her.

  “Lorne, sweeyheart, are you ashleep?” he slurred as he leant over her.

  Rigid with apprehension, she dared not wiggle her big toe, in case he realised she was awake. Before long, his snoring kept her awake, instead of the vivid images of the mysterious woman’s charred remains.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The alarm went off at six fifteen, and Lorne turned it off before Tom had time to register what the noise was. Creeping around the bedroom, she gathered clean clothes and closed the door behind her. After grabbing a quick shower, she dressed and was ready for Pete ten minutes later.

  Pete pulled up and found her standing in the porch, shivering, her hair soaking wet.

  “Don’t say a word,” Lorne warned, jumping in the passenger seat. She leaned forwards and turned the heater on full blast.

  “But Tom was fine when I left. You must’ve rubbed him up the wrong way or somethin’.”

  “Let’s just say he knows how to put a brave face on things when company is around. This is hopeless. I’ll dry my hair in the ladies’ at the mortuary. Put your foot down, Pete, before I catch my death.”

  “And you wonder why I ain’t married?” he mumbled under his breath.

  When they arrived, the mortuary only had a couple of lights on. Pete shook the front door until Jacques appeared.

  Taking in her appearance, Jacques looked up at the sky. “I wasn’t aware it had been raining.”

  “It hasn’t,” Pete retorted sharply as Lorne rushed off to the ladies’ room.

  Once the pair of detectives had changed into the required protective clothing, they joined up with Arnaud in the mortuary. Pete stayed in his usual position, and Lorne stood beside Jacques like she always did.

  “No Bones today?” Lorne asked.

  “I told him to come in later; he’ll be here about nine. There was a motorway pile-up to deal with last night—we didn’t leave here until about two this morning.”

  “You should have rung me. I would’ve come in later. What’s that look for?”

  He eyed her suspiciously as he pulled on a pair of latex gloves. “I told you to go home and rest. If that’s what rest does for you, I can see why you are a workaholic.”

  “Thanks. Didn’t realise I looked that bad. Leave it, Jacques. Please.” She glanced over at Pete, who was watching them through slanted eyes.

  Jacques understood what she meant, and he whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “We’ll talk about this later, when the evil eye is not watching our every move.”

  The post-mortem commenced. “The body is that of Sandra Crayford, aged fifty-eight, five feet five inches in height,” Jacques said.

  “How do you know who the victim is?”

  “At the scene, we found the woman’s handbag. Her driving licence and other ID were inside. It’s over there on the bench.”

  The bench in question was within Pete’s reach, and Lorne motioned for him to take a look. It was understandable that they hadn’t noticed the bag at the scene; they’d been otherwise engaged, trying to put the fire out.

  Jacques went on, “She has an ID badge that indicates she was a social worker.” He examined the body, noting out loud all the bruises he found, for the tape’s benefit. “Ah, this is strange. There are a series of indentations like this one here.” He pointed to a mark on the woman’s chest.

  Lorne leaned over the charred remains to take a closer look.

  “Two marks about a centimetre apart. What do you make of that, Inspector?”

  “He used an implement that has two points. What about a garden fork, maybe something like that?”

  “You mean like this?” He held up an evidence bag with a garden fork inside. “It has three prongs, which are pointed. They would have pierced the skin.”

  “Dare I ask? Did you find that near the body?” She knew what his answer would be before he even said it.

  “Not near the body—in the body, just like the others. It was embedded in her vagina. The marks I have here would have been made by a blunt object, not one that is pointed.”

  “What about the end of a crowbar?” Pete asked as he sorted through the contents of the woman’s bag.

  “Come over here and take a look,” Lorne said.

  “I’m fine where I am, thanks!”

  Lorne tutted. “Make yourself useful. Go and see if there’s one in the boot of my car?”

  “What the heck are you doing with a crowbar in your car?”

  “It was precautionary. You know, the Gripper Jones case? Why the hell am I explaining this to you? Get it now, Pete. Please.”

  “Okay, okay. Keep your knickers on.” Pete blushed when he realised what he’d said, and in whose company. He quickly left the mortuary in embarrassment.

  “Don’t go outside in those clothes,” Jacques shouted after him. He turned to Lorne. “Now we’re alone. Tell me what happened to you last night?”

  Lorne tried to brush it off as just another sleepless night that went hand in hand with the job, but Jacques was having none of it. He pressed her for an answer.

  “A mixture of things I suppose. Having to put out a burning body affected me, badly. Guilt, because I think I could have prevented this or at least delayed it. The fact that I could be the killer’s next victim, or there’s always the argument I had with my husband when I got home. Take your pick. Does that add up to a sleepless night in your book?” She managed a weak smile.

  “Did you make it up with him?”

  “No. Pete picked me up before he woke from his drunken stupor.” She shrugged. Her eyes darted around the room, looking anywhere but at Jacques.

  “Does he have a drinking problem?”

  “Only after an argument. He thinks it solves his problems.”

  “And does it?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’m not around him that much. He’s just feeling sorry for himself and chose to take it out on me. Don’t worry. I have broad shoulders. It’ll blow over; it usually does.”

  “You shouldn’t have to put up with that. Does he know how demanding your job is?”

  “That’s the problem—the job, I mean. Because I accepted promotion, I spend less time at home with him and Charlie. I think the crux of the matter is that he feels isolated. He spends every waking minute of the day at home. He gave up work years ago, and now it’s proving impossible for him to find a job. It was his decision to become a house husband. My workload won’t allow me the time to sort things out at the moment. He’ll be fine when I get home tonight, I’m sure.”

  “I might speak out of turn here, but to me he sounds selfish. Especially when it was his decision to give up work.”

  “That’s right, but look at it from his point of view. You’d go mad if you were confined to four walls most of the day, cleaning up after two women.”

  “I’m afraid, ma chérie, I wouldn’t have allowed myself to get into such a position in the first place. I repeat it was his choice. I have plenty of married friends where the wife is at home all day. They appear to survive better than your husband does. Life is, after all, what you make it. Tell him to get a hobby or do some decorating if he’s that bored.”

  It was pointless making excuses for Tom to a person she barely knew herself. She quickly changed the subject. “Was it a big pile-up?”

  “Sorry, I don’t understand?”

  “Last night. Was the motorway pile-up a big one, many fatalities?”

  “Ah, the typical swift change of subject. I thought you were better than that, Inspector?”

  Lorne noticed how hurt he lo
oked and wondered why he would be interested in her dull marriage. Or does he take pleasure in hearing about my husband’s inadequacies?

  “It’s a sore subject, that’s all, Jacques. If you want me to start blubbering like a child then fine, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not let my sergeant see me with my defences down.”

  Before he could answer, she was relieved to hear Pete’s heavy footsteps trotting up the corridor.

  “Here it is.” Pete held the crowbar in his outstretched arm. Lorne blew out a frustrated breath as she went to fetch it.

  Jacques’ hand brushed against hers as he took it from her. Their eyes met, his sparkled with amusement.

  “If this matches, then we better start taking our psychic Miss Lang seriously,” Lorne said. Jacques raised an eyebrow. She explained, “She thought the weapon was a bar with a hook and a point.”

  “It’s a perfect match to the injury. I’ll compare the other cases after I have finished the post-mortem. Now, where was I? Oh yes, the right ear is missing. I think we can assume it will reappear shortly through the post.”

  Jacques completed the post-mortem by ten thirty, giving Pete and Lorne thirty minutes to get to the funeral.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  A van making a delivery to Sam’s electrical store blocked the shortcut they wanted to take up Miller Street. Lorne tooted her horn, and the driver rudely aimed a V-sign at the car. Pete pulled the door handle, but Lorne managed to restrain him. In the end, she was forced to back up and go the long way round. They arrived at the church with only minutes to spare.

  A large crowd was winding their way up the path to the entrance of the church. Oliver was just inside the door on the left, welcoming mourners acquainted with his mother. The upper-class were well represented amongst Belinda’s friends. On the right, Colleen and her husband were greeting people paying their respects to Doreen. The pews on the left were already full, a stark contrast to those on the right—a reflection of the divide there’d been in the two women’s lives.